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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823969">limerence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemqnie/pseuds/lemqnie'>lemqnie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Akaashi Keiji &amp; Iwaizumi Hajime &amp; Matsukawa Issei &amp; Kageyama Tobio are brothers, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Edo Period, Family, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Akaashi Keiji/Miya Atsumu - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Minor Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Minor Miya Atsumu/Suna Rintarou, Minor Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Samurai, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:15:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>57,069</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823969</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemqnie/pseuds/lemqnie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>To settle his father's debt, Keiji sells himself as a "bride" to their young Miya landlord and falls in love with his twin instead.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>180</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Persimmons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I really don't know how to preface this at all. I've been writing this for 8 months, it feels almost surreal to actually post it. I'll keep my notes short for the start and actually write it out at the end. </p><p>For now, <a>please enjoy Iris' wonderful art for chapter 7 here.</a></p><p>And a massive thank you to Vee, Sara, Kelly, and Peppa for proofreading.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The summer heat dissipates back into the earth and makes way for the chilling autumn breeze, cooling down every nook and cranny of his small village just south of Kamaeko. Keiji bounces with each step, the gold pieces in his hands, his first-ever pay at his new job, clinks like solid luck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Keiji! Is it that time of the month already?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji halts his steps and turns. Akizuki Takeshi stands proudly behind his stall, a single rattan fan in his hand. Fruit flies are buzzing around the table where fish are laid bare and cut for patrons to see. Keiji’s mouth waters when he spots the sliver of pink salmon, but he clutches the coins in his palm and nods solemnly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve just started a new job,” he explains politely to Akizuki, a rowdy old man who always livens up the village inn during the weekends. Keiji only knows him from Hajime’s endless tales of the inn (he hasn’t shut up about it ever since he was old enough to step foot into the establishment.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Akizuki claps his hands together in a loud smack. “Well, good on you, boy! Now, what can I get you? Salmon? Eel? Tuna, perhaps?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, no,” Keiji rushes, “just the bream, please. Normal cut.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, then. One bream coming right up. Tell you what, I’ll even throw in some of this salmon.” At Keiji’s aborted look, the old man laughs. “No, don’t refuse me now—It’s on the house. For your new job.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji’s shoulders sag in relief as a grateful smile graces his face. “Thank you, Mr Akizuki.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anything for my most loyal customer. Say, don’t stay out too late, alright? Word on the vine is that the landlords are coming down this month. The Village Elder isn’t back yet, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My father’s not back yet, no.” Keiji fights the bitterness threatening to spill onto his speech with great urgency —how unbecoming it would be, for all of them as a family, if their domestic discord were laundered for the whole village to see. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He worries his lip at the mention of the noblemen. The landlords are the highest of the Warrior Class, owning the entire village he was living in, including the stretch of land his father farmed. If they were coming back after long months in their hometown, whatever instigated it must be an important affair. One his father would’ve tended to if he were here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji blinks himself out of his stupor before taking the sack of seafood from the merchant, bowing slightly as he drops the coins into the man’s calloused palm. “Thank you, Mr Akizuki.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Akizuki flashes him a grin just as a wavering fruit fly hovers too close to his lips. “You too, sonny!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>#</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Akaashi house was built a good decade before Keiji was born. It was an engagement gift from his father to his mother, a promise for a stable future. He can see bits of the roof now as the main road diminishes into a skinny pathway, bits of grass and weed framing it and the occasional skid marks on the dirt trail. On his right are acres and acres of rice paddy fields and, to his left, the house. Keiji would never call them rich, but his father was the Village Elder, a reputable farmer amongst the others. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If he squints his eyes, past the short stalks of evergreen bamboo, he can just about make out his brother between the persimmon trees. Keiji cups his hands to call but pauses and thinks the better of it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pivots away from the croplands and rushes upwards in the opposite direction towards the house, jumping up the stairs at two steps at a time as the wrapped up bream and salmon swings by his side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ma, I’m home!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In here,” his mother’s sweet voice rings out from the kitchen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji slips off his sandals before he steps inside his home, the wooden floors a cooling sensation on his beaten feet. He easily navigates past the sitting room, a small affair with a fireplace in the middle as the house’s central heating system, then past his father’s study. The door has been closed for months now and Keiji hardly thinks of it anymore. Sometimes his mother would ask one of his brothers to clean up the dust growing on his books and to air out the room. Never Keiji, of course. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The errs of his day is washed away when his eyes catch the sight of his mother’s thin shoulders. Keiji sneaks up on her, like when he was seven before he latches onto her back, mindful of his weight and catches himself just before his body pushes against his hers.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She isn’t capable of taking such force anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keiji! Stop that, I’m cooking!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji is grinning before he even realises it, their peals of laughter mixing into the evening and the cicadas’ hymn outside. The stove crackles wildly underneath the blackened pot. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look what I got.” His hand surges upwards, the seafood swinging wildly with inertia. He proudly presents it on top of the kitchen’s wooden counter, sending a few cloves of garlic rolling away. His mother takes one long look at it before she brings her hot palm to his wrist. “Ow!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What did I tell you about getting another job? You’re going to burn yourself to the ground! Winter’s just around the corner, sickness is in abundance. You mustn’t ever fall sick.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But, Ma!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother shakes her head and rests her wooden spatula on the pot of unstirred tofu, it bubbles angrily with the water. She fixes him a stern glare, the middles of her brows crooking with ire. “No buts! You might as well never come home with the number of hours you're off at work. Who’ll sit for Tobio then?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s always Issei,” Keiji drawls as he sneaks a glance at the bowls of millet already set on the table. He eyes them with distaste, never understanding why they, as rice farmers, weren’t allowed to eat the rice they harvested through hard labour all day but having to settle for a mediocre wheat substitute. He huffs. “And Tobio’s a big boy, anyway. He just turned fifteen a few months ago!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother’s response was a soft hum, barely audible beneath the layers of cicadas choir and the crackling fire, but as she looks up at him with that gentle smile, he couldn’t hear anything past her voice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but he will always need his brothers just as much as you will always need them. Call Issei in and see if the rest have arrived yet.” When Keiji doesn’t move, she clicks her tongue and waves him off. “Go on, then.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji departs from the kitchen with a scoff. He makes his way through the backdoor, cutting corners he once discovered as foreign lands at a child’s age with his two brave and mighty older brothers. Hajime and Issei were as good conquerors as they were brothers, which is to say very well—they had scoped out the entire farm by the age of seven and six respectfully. They shared secret handshakes and codes for things before Keiji could even read. Though they are only a few years older than himself, it always felt as though the two boys were light-years ahead of him in everything. He once wondered whether this feeling would ever cease but adulthood has yet to prove him wrong. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pigs squeal as they hear him march around their sty. Keiji doesn’t pay them any mind. Once, he had gotten so attached to a piglet that he refused to let his father slaughter it for their New Years dinner. Needless to say, the lesson he learned that day had scarred just enough for him to never forget. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei, the tallest of the Akaashi brothers, had a head of the familial ebony locks except for the fact that his curls were far more defined while Keiji’s resemble cowlicks more than any real style. Keiji brushes a hand through his hair as he steps onto the farmland. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Back home already, City Boy?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji clicks his tongue in annoyance as he stands in front of Issei. “Don’t call me that. That’s Hajime’s title.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re right,” Issei easily agrees. He’s tending to their most difficult Persimmon tree, brought onto the farm as a skinny sample only a month ago. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s still not bearing any fruit?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei shakes his head. His bushy eyebrows are even more downturned than usual. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead and the man wipes it off with one soiled hand, leaving a smear of dirt on his cheek. Keiji grimaces. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mama’s calling you for dinner, please, shower before then. I bought bream and salmon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Salmon, you say?” Issei perks up, eyes immediately leaving the roots of the tree to meet his brother’s. The man tumbles over towards him. “Well then. I guess I’ll have to call it a day, don’t I?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait…Issei, don’t…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Keiji’s bid falls onto deaf ears as Issei wraps one greasy arm around Keiji’s shoulder. Keiji scrunches his nose in revulsion when the boy’s odour wafts his nose, he shoves two palms against Issei’s side but Issei was the biggest Akaashi brother, both in height and stature, no one (not even Hajime) could bring him down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With one swift swing, Issei has Keiji’s arms trapped behind him. He flails but finds himself bruising his wrist. When Keiji flops in surrender, the grip around his wrists free and he’s quick to bring them under inspection. There’s hardly any marks, but he hisses anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t be a baby,” Issei sneers playfully. He nudges at Keiji’s ankle with the tip of his sandals. “Get that basket over there and bring it to the house. Come on.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The basket is filled to the brim with golden persimmons and he can feel the hot strain it’ll place on his back but he sucks it up, swallows it into silence and acceptance because Issei is eyeing him with that don’t-you-even-dare stare that all older siblings are seemingly gifted with. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji sighs and bends down to pick the basket up from its bottom and sling. He hooks the rope around one shoulder and grunts at its weight. When he looks up, Issei is already heading down the muddy boulevard. He trots down until he’s lugging the basket in the same stride.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you get that job?” Issei asks after a while. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji knows there’s no point in lying. He also knows that his family couldn’t do anything about it, but he still hates the bitter aftertaste when he tells them of his disobedience. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes…By the inn. An old merchant lady asked me to sell her stuff for her. In turn, she gives me a few coins.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“By the inn, huh? Did you see Akizuki or is day-drinking off his repertoire?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji rolls his eyes at this. The two men hike up the small hill leading from the croplands to the main pathway, the dry earth gives beneath their sandals, before crossing across it to reach the house. Keiji and Issei simultaneously steer left from the front steps leading up to the porch and go to deposit the hulky baskets of persimmons under the spigot by the shed. Issei moves to gently tip them over, letting the fruits roll around and bounce off the kickboards.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Akizaki is not as much of a drunkard Hajime makes him seem,” Keiji mutters. He catches a falling persimmon, placing it delicately in the centre of the washing station. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei turns the tap and winks at him as water jets out from the spigot. “Just joking, Kei.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji observes silently as the water envelopes each fruit with its cool embrace before turning to his brother, resting against the concrete wall. “I know,” he begins. “He says the landlords are coming today.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei freezes, the hands which were washing away the persimmons halt mid-motion. The tap, which seems to be a minute noise in the background now drowned everything else and Keiji reaches over to shut it off. The water slows to a drip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei is still rooted in his spot, crouched over and slightly resting on the cemented barrier around their station, and Keiji captures the moment he regains his composure--the tick of his brows smoothening, a downward quirk of his mouth, and the slightest tilt of his head before he’s peering up at Keiji from where he’s squatting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Landlords, huh? What business do they have down here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji shakes his head, his fingers gravitating towards each other. “I can’t say. Mr Akizaki told me to go home and not to stay out too late.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Miya family. Coming back to Kamaoke. Man, Samurais are going to be crawling up and down this village.” Issei clicks his tongue while he tosses a clean persimmon back into the basket. “It’ll be Hajime’s wet dream. Wait, don’t tell him I said that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you think Hajime might have a chance if the landlords come down?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, to be a Samurai?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji nods once, gaze anchoring on his elder brother. Issei gives him a sigh as he returns to wash the fruits. “My guess is as good as yours, Kei. Maybe they might be charmed or his spiky hair might just scare them away, who knows? It’s fifty-fifty.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The two brothers seem to have it under control for a millisecond before they burst out into howls of laughter. Keiji wheezes, the image of Hajime storming back home--with that scornful scowl and his hair in disarray--was enough to set him off again. The fit leaves him sighing even as he bends down from where he’s perched to grab a persimmon and rinse it under the jetting water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fruit’s skin is soft and cool against his sweaty fingers. Keiji hopes that his sweat wouldn’t leave a scent on them. He lets it sink in his palm, pooling water between his fingers before placing it to the clean side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t let Kageyama hear that. He’ll hate you,” Keiji mumbles with a sniff.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei grunts. “Damn right. That kid loves Hajime too much. Do tell, Kei, what does Hajime have that I don’t?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Muscles, for one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji’s lips are parting in apology when he feels his balance go askew. Issei is smirking, his arm that pushed Keiji still out. Keiji sticks his hand out to stop his fall just in time, but the thin material of his trousers which rest just below his butt is damp. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji’s eyes bulge out. Issei makes an aborted noise before Keiji runs one hand under the running water and splashes him with it. The elder shrieks, jumping up from his perch just careful enough to not accidentally squish any of the fruit he reaped. Keiji grins as he cups another handful of water in his hands and bolts after him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei catches sight of him and runs down the front yard and onto the small pathway. For a second, he’s caught in headlights, but then he makes the quick decision to go further from town and heads left. Keiji dashes after him with little to zero hesitance. They are metres away from the neighbouring farm when they hear a shout. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Issei! Keiji! What do you think you two are doing! Get back here. Now!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The brothers’ sprint curbs to a stop and Keiji has to flail around to not topple over. The two take a second to catch their breaths. Keiji debates whether he should be concerned about his poor fitness. When Keiji’s world stops rotating, he squints up at the voice and spots a head of spiky black hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime stalks towards them, a silent Tobio following after him. Keiji doesn’t need his brother to come any closer to know that the man is downright livid. His thick brows are unified and his lips are dragged into a deep scowl. Keiji takes a few steps backwards until he hits Issei’s chest who pushes the boy in front of him like a human shield as Hajime diminishes the distance between them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime, being the firstborn, is as scary as every older sibling is, if not more. He glares at the two of them and the water cupped in Keiji’s hands trickles past his fingers and onto the soil, a mud pool by his feet. Keiji watches it absorb into the ground and wishes he could follow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you two supposed to be helping Ma out? Is no one looking after her?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji and Issei are silent, they know better than to let their tongue run rampant when Hajime scolds them. He just hopes it isn’t too long of a lecture. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime stands in front of them, his two muscular arms on his hips. His hair is greasy with sweat, as is the rest of his body and hands. Keiji flits his eyes between their eldest to their youngest. Tobio blinks at him. Keiji manages a small smile and that is enough for Tobio to reward him with a tug of his lips. Not a smile, but the effort is there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Honestly! The two of you,” Hajime mutters as he wipes his arm over his brows. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji averts his eyes. Issei sidesteps him easily and Keiji’s wordless for a while, holding his breath before he feels a strong clap on his shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kei here told me Tobio doesn’t like me as much as you because I haven’t got muscles. I was just teaching him respect and now he’s chasing me. What does </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kei</span>
  </em>
  <span> have to say for himself?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji snaps his head up, panic flushing crimson on his cheeks, but it’s all broken when a deep laugh reverberates amongst the brothers. He flicks his gaze up and Hajime is rubbing his chin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I guess he’s right,” is Hajime’s final verdict. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Was he, Tobio?” Issei challenges, tone friendly and soft. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy in question spares a look at the two of them with his large blue eyes before they fly upwards as though he was seriously considering it. Issei and Keiji exchange a look before Tobio replies, solemn, “No. I like Hajime best because he looks cool with a sword. I like painting cool things.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Course you do,” Issei sighs before his lips stretch into a grin. He tugs Keiji along with him as they stand side by side with their brothers. “Are you hungry?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tobio nods his head fervently at this and his lips are tightened into a frown. “I wish I can be like you guys and don’t have to go to school.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That bad, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Tobio launches into a full explanation of his day, Keiji lets his voice lull him into the serenity of the evening. As a pack, they make their way down the pathway until they reach the little hill in which their house lay atop. There, Issei splits from them to go wash the leftover persimmons but Hajime tugs at his collar and tells him to eat dinner first. Keiji and Tobio make a face at this—neither of them particularly like a mess, dirty bodies included. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime ushers Issei for a bath who go begrudgingly towards the bathroom. Tobio strolls behind Issei down the right hall to his and Keiji’s shared room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji slips off his shoes, trailing silently after Hajime as the man navigates through the lounge and into the kitchen. He gives a kiss to their mother’s cheek and lays down another sack. Keiji eyes the wet thing before moving to help his mother with the dishes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They reconvene at the living room once dusk fully settles, basking the world in luminescence. Plates of food from the stew and fried tofu are arranged neatly in the middle of the mat. Issei’s hair is wet and sticks to his face, sprinkling water droplets whenever he turns too quickly. Tobio, the one sitting beside him, grumbles angrily at each instance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I caught it earlier,” Hajime announces triumphantly. He reaches over to tear off a slab of meat from the grilled dish. “Foxes are super hard to catch, but they're delicious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tobio was piling his plate up high, not even bothering with the conversation as per. Their mother sends him a fond smile, yet he is blinded by the food. Issei hums in agreement as he extends his plate to Hajime for a fill of fox meat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s gamey but nice. Especially with the bream stew,” Issei adds, nodding seriously. Tobio side-eyes him and rolls his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji huffs a soft laugh as he bends forwards to scoop the stew into his bowl. “You just like food.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei does nothing to rebut this and at that, Hajime laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They fall into their dinner with mild chatter, the only person in their familial party not participating unless called is Tobio, but everyone went on unperturbed. Tobio joins when he can or when he wants to, and that was enough for them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ma,” Hajime starts once the plates are cleared and Keiji is stationed for dish duties. “Was there any letter today?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their mother, now sat by the lounge, staring forlornly outside, shakes her head. “No,” she says as she strokes Tobio’s hair. “But don’t fret. I’m sure your father’s just busy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime doesn’t say anything to this and opts to clear the last remaining plates away. Keiji tugs at the hem of his brother’s shirt when he is close enough with wet fingers and Hajime eyes him questioningly. Keiji dips his head to Hajime’s ear and whispers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mr Akizaki told me the landlords are coming.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” is Hajime’s first question. Then, “When?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Keiji moves to answer, footfalls of at least a dozen men echo from outside. Hajime snaps his head towards the front door. He gives Keiji’s shoulder a firm squeeze before he runs outside. Keiji curses and dips his hand under the running water, shuts the tap off then dashes into the lounge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ma, let’s go into your room, okay?” Keiji moves to bend down and pick her up but the woman manages just fine to stand on her knees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on?” she asks tepidly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji bites his lip but he chooses to stay silent. Instead, he turns to the youngest of his brothers and tilts the boy’s chin up so that they were eye-to-eye. “Tobio, can you take Mama into her room for me? Just stay there until I get the two of you, okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he wasn’t fast enough. The footfalls are sounding closer and closer and he begs the Lords that Hajime is enough to stall them until Keiji could coerce his mother and Tobio out of harm's way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sound reaches up the hill and the first thing Keiji sees are eyes—bright, skinny, and drowning in something he is too afraid to name. The owner of such eyes steps on to their porch, toeing off his shoes as an elderly woman, dressed in a reserved maroon kimono with golden embellishments, tails behind him. Keiji takes one long look at the young man and his silver kimono and knows instantly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Landlords</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Evenin’,” the man with the eyes greets his family. His mother is speechless, staring up at their guest with her mouth slightly agape. Tobio shifts uneasily until he is somewhat standing in front of their mother, shielding her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji wishes he can reach out to pet him but stays rooted to his spot. He bows deeply until he is face to face with his knees. “Good evening, Lord Miya.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, Atsumu is fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Keiji unfolds himself into a stand, he braces himself to meet a pair of devilish eyes and finds himself wordless with the young man’s aghast mien. His gilded eyes are subdued momentarily, mouth apart as he stares Keiji down before he shuts his lips close and looks away. Keiji tears his gaze away from the man to try and find Hajime—he’s positioned behind the elderly woman, head humbled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lord…Atsumu,” Keiji starts, voice steady, eyes fixing themselves back to the recovered man “To what do we owe the pleasure?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu’s eyes glint under the candlelight of their lounge and he trails his eyes around its walls in interest before they settle, once more and softly, on Keiji. “Don’t mind me, just ‘ere to escort the Gramma. Gramma?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His accent is thick and Keiji’s not well-versed in the many dialects of his country to pinpoint where he was coming from but if rumours were true, then the Miya family were a strain of the Edo clan which took residence in Nagoya. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As the man steps aside, the elderly woman from behind him emerges and Keiji feels as though he was seconds away from getting knocked off his feet. Whatever aura Atsumu carried with him is found tenfold in this woman. She eyes Keiji’s family with disgust, her nose sticking high in the air when she comes to see Keiji’s muddy trousers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji shields the dirty pant leg with his other foot. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your family has an outstanding debt of three-thousand yen in taxes,” she states with an air of finality. Keiji feels the wooden floorboards under him quake and he looks down to see them perfectly still beneath him. He hears his mother gasp, but couldn’t move a muscle. His body is frigid. “I have kept tabs on this, gracing mercy for the past three months, but enough is enough. We are landlords, we must account for our land and those who inhabit it. So, I shall ask, where is your head of house?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am,” their mother speaks with a bow of her head. Her three sons ogle at her, starstruck. When she lifts her head, Keiji sees the slightest tick at her jaw. “My name, Akaashi Hime. My husband is far away tending to a property in the South.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, get him back! And don’t play such games. I was clearly referring to your husband.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother doesn’t duck her head, her eyes are alight with fervour and a memory of a younger, happier woman appears. Keiji blinks and flits his gaze to the monarch who scrutinises their family in bold confidence. When his mother raises her voice to speak, Keiji feels something in him a spark.  “With all due respect, milady, I am the adult of my home and therefore I am the head of this house. If you cannot spare me such respect, I will have to ask you to leave the premise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The monarch baulks. At her side, Lord Atsumu’s thin lips slow to a grin. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>As she moves to speak, Hajime sidesteps her to stand in front of their family, head bowed. When he speaks, his tone is apologetic, “He is out of town in business, ma’am. Please forgive us, we weren’t aware of such debts.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman sneers. “Forgiveness is for mistakes. A repeated offence is not a mistake. State your name.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Akaashi Hajime,” his brother obeys. “I am the eldest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I see. And where are your monies now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Our father never mentioned such finances before he left,” Hajime explains. “We are only surviving on what my brothers and I make. We cannot repay you, ma’am.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This seemed to set her off and she scoffs, overpowering the screech of the cicadas outside.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she hears footsteps from around the house, she falters, and Keiji feels a smidge of relief at seeing Issei’s baffled face by the doorway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Miffed, the woman hisses at the newcomer, “How rude of you to treat such guests with hostility!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei bows his head as he comes to join Keiji and Hajime to face the Miyas. Atsumu stands by his grandmother’s side, looking downright amused and Keiji wishes he could slap that smug grin off his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ma’am,” Hajime starts, “We have nothing to give you. Please, let us beckon our father and have him see his debts to you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Unacceptable. It has been three months!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei speaks then, his voice low and gravelly. “We have nothing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You must have something as a guarantee of your debts.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, ma’am. Nothing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji knows that he would suffer the brunt of his father’s choices one day, he just never expected it to be this soon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His father is headstrong and, in all senses, a man. This is why he loves Hajime most, now that Keiji thinks about it—he always serves him the bigger portions, always asks the boy to accompany him as the village Elder, and then when Issei was old enough, taught him the ropes to farming. When he tried once more for a daughter and received Keiji, he was ecstatic but that joy soon died out when Keiji deflected every single lesson the man tried to teach him. Keiji never liked hunting, he hated farm work, and it was clear as day to everyone in the household that the boy preferred his mother to his father. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Keiji grew older, it became more and more difficult for his father to control him and soon resorted to seeking his obedience with violent means. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji eyes his two older brothers, watches their face contort in frustration and fury—they must be heartbroken at the news. They idolised their father, loved him. But from Keiji’s perspective, from where he stood in their shadows, he can’t help but think of how predictable this all was. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows Tobio must be scared out of his wits even though he doesn’t show it. He also knows that they don’t have any money, none could ever pay back to create even a dent in the outstanding debt their father had left with the Miya family. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji spares one look at his mother, sees the clenched fist at her side and that barely hidden snarl. He can almost hear his father’s retort of unladylike behaviour.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They couldn’t give their house up either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So Keiji steps forwards. His head bowed the entire time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keiji,” his mother’s warning is sharp. It claws onto his back like talons but he marches on. She hisses again, “Keiji.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He feels rather than sees the pairs of eyes raking down his back in pleas but he steps forwards until he is just in front of the woman before sinking to his knees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have any money, ma’am, nor can we give up this house. So, I…” Keiji knows what he must do, but knowing doesn’t make it any less hard. The words die on his tongue and his brothers’ piercing gazes are hot pelts across his back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keiji, come here right now,” his mother urges. Her tone wavering. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji feels the ghost of a whip strike him, remembers the towering figure of his father and forces himself to face the Miya monarch, her eyes in narrow slits, and bites out his sentence. “I will forfeit my name, ma’am.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman towering over him regards him in haste. “What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simultaneously, his mother screams, “No!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji pays attention to one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In marriage, ma’am. Or to be your servant. I will renounce my name as… as an Akaashi and be under your possession.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At this, several voices erupt in rejection. Issei and Hajime are stepping forward, hands reaching for the boy’s shoulders to tug him to stand but Keiji stays seated and bowed. There are no other answers, no one else can do this, give up their identity as freely as he—no one had such little ties to their father as he. He can do it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For his family, he can. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman scoffs. “Marriage? Even if I had a lady, I would never tarnish my clan in such a way. But a servant, perhaps.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do not listen to him,” his mother begs. “Keiji, get up!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime sinks in front of Lady Miya and bows. “Lady Miya. Please, disregard his ramblings. My brother is delirious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What other assets can you offer me, boy? Your family is penniless! At least this one has a good head between his shoulders.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please,” Hajime tries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother is crying now, Keiji can hear her, but his choice is resolute. He is about to protest when a sly voice interrupts the commotion with one single cough. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like that. The weddin’ thin’. Very original.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Atsumu, be quiet,” the woman hisses. But the man pays her no mind. Instead, he comes to stand right by Keiji before falling to his knees. From where he’s bowing, Keiji hears the woman gasp when Atsumu places a hand under Keiji’s chin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lets his head be guided upwards until he meets a pair of warm, amber eyes. Keiji feels his breath catch in his throat and stifles the urge to run away. To survive. Atsumu’s knuckles graze gently against his throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like a knife, an ultimatum.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Taking another man’s name in surrender. What beautiful defeat,” Atsumu croons. Just as easy as he caresses Keiji’s chin, the man’s hands drop before he stands by the woman’s side—who is glowering at her grandson. “Wouldn’t you agree, Gramma?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Miya Heir will not marry a man,” the woman hisses. “Do not mess around now, Atsumu.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not messin’ around. I’ll take him and he’ll take our name as a sign of his old Dad’s failure. C’mon, now, Gramma. A servant can hide away from the world but a husband? He’ll be ridiculed left, right, and centre!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As will you,” she seethes. “And so will the rest of us in this clan. I won’t have it!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But I’ll own him. Right, Keiji?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu’s liqueur eyes land on him and Keiji goes rigid. His mouth falls open briefly before he nods once. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At his obedience, the monarch falls silent. She mulls the thought over. Keiji hopes they make their mind up soon, he feels the edges of his facade begin to crack with the weight of unshed shame at the back of his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose that might do,” the woman says haughtily. “But I expect him to attend lessons in housewifery at the mansion every day until your wedding, which is to be held at the start of winter and no more than.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu hums. “Agreed. What say you, husband?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I will,” Keiji mutters robotically shortly after. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman nods her head once. “Good. Be at the Miya Mansion tomorrow at seven-thirty. If you’re late, we will take the house and your land. Till then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji’s eyes never once left Atsumu’s fiery ones and for the first time in his life, he wondered whether he would come out of his own choices alive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>#</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“What were you thinking!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nightshade has long since blanketed the sky with its navy embrace. The four brothers are huddled close in Keiji’s and Tobio’s shared bedroom, their futons still stored in the cabinets even though the moon soars high above the horizon. Keiji draws his knees closer and rests his chin on them. He winces at the particularly sharp slap Issei delivers to his calf. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Honestly,” Issei’s tone is scalding, and his normally half-lidded eyes were struck wide. “What were you thinking? Keiji.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji eyes Tobio, who looks at him like the bugs their mother would prey on in the kitchen, seizing in half liveness and awaiting death, and closes his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Right after the Miya landlords left, their mother wordlessly retreats into her room and slides her door shut, refusing entry to even the youngest brother. Hajime sends Keiji a harsh glare before he calls a brothers-only meeting (a rare card, last used when their mother had fallen sick.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime sits cross-legged between Tobio and Issei, making him the only one to stare at Keiji directly. Still, the eldest eyes are askance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei is demanding. He throttles Keiji for a moment until Keiji snaps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you honestly want to know?” Keiji asks. He tries to not let the frustration bleed into his speech, but he knows even that was too much to ask of himself at this point. His eyes are weary and any movement from his limbs are sluggish. He rests his head in his hands and mutters out the last bit of truth he had left. “There was nothing else to do. I did the only thing we had left.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say that. Don’t talk about yourself like you’re some… commodity,” Issei hisses. “Like a harvest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji opens his mouth to retaliate but is sent into silence when Hajime abruptly shoots up from the floor. Issei and Tobio both turn to face their childhood leader—their hero, who all three boys turned for help in navigating their childhood, who now appears very lost. Keiji thinks Hajime looks like a fish out of the water, nearly paralysed by the sheer shock of being pulled out of their environment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They wait for him, as they always do. It takes a while for Hajime to speak but he does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you go tomorrow, we’re coming with.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At this, Tobio springs to his feet faster than Issei’s sputtering. The boy’s eyes are glassy and Keiji fears that he might cry. But Tobio hasn’t cried in a while, not since their father went away for business or whatever it was he went for these days. No, Tobio doesn’t cry. He gets angry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re letting Keiji marry? You?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime clicks his tongue and pries his arm away from Tobio, face tightening when the boy refuses to let go. “Watch it. I’m not letting him do anything. Keiji is a grown man.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s our brother, asshole,” Issei spits, betrayed. Hajime regards him with disdain and an image of the two boys grappling at the front yard as prepubescent teens flashes across Keiji’s mind. “We can’t just give him away.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing else to do, jerk face. Keiji's right. We have no money and we can’t give away the land or house. Right? That’s what you were thinking.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes him a while but when he does register Haijme’s question, Keiji perks up and feels all his synapses tingle at once. “Oh. Right. Yes. It’s also getting late. We can talk more in the morning,” he says as he rights himself up before heading over to the closet where they store their futons. He picks two for him and Tobio, laying them down next to each other even as Issei groans at him to stop being such an ass. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know it doesn’t have to be like this right? Right? I can get a job in town. Haul my ass till daybreak and sell things myself at the market. Right?” Issei stresses one last time as Keiji is ushering him and Hajime down the corridor and into their shared room. Keiji rolls his eyes and moves to push him further but Issei uses both his hands to hang onto the doorway. “I need to hear you say it. Right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime huffs from inside the room and that was his response enough. Keiji decides he’ll have to talk to him tomorrow. Or maybe in a week. For now, he rests his gaze on Issei’s face—what had the most carefree grin just hours prior now blemished with worry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I know. Now, goodnight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji turns around without waiting for Issei’s reply, too aware of the pinched look on Issei’s dumb face to ever want to turn around. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t head back to his room, but he checks in on Tobio, a relieved sigh escaping his lips when he sees the boy curled up on his futon facing away from the door. Keiji closes the sliding door so slowly that even the air seems to lose all sort of volume to it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji had always loved the night. He loves the serenity it washes over his world—the bustling air of work and pay surrendering to twilight, the crisp air as the sun fades away, and the slowness of his breaths as he swims his way around its quietude. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even amidst the mayhem, he has found himself in, Keiji revels in the night. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The floorboards wheeze softly under his weight, he toes down the hallway until he reaches the living room. He feels his stomach churn, the memory too vivid and raw in his mind that he steps away quickly and detours to the kitchen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He notices first that the windows are open—if only by the gentle breeze which kisses him when he takes the left turn into the room. Then he notices his mother. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s frail and dainty, a ghost of the virile young woman she had been years ago before the birth of her fourth son took too much from her. Her shoulders are sharp underneath the sheer robes she wore to bed and her hair, which is always done up into perfect buns, sways down her shoulders stretching to her lower back. Lifeless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji falters. He has one foot in the room but the other is leaden behind him. Should he turn and head back into his room? Should he come in and face her? His mouth is slightly agape, trying to formulate words he can’t seem to find. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keiji.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother’s voice was soft, subtle under the quiet hush of the cicadas outside. He freezes before he steps inside. “Ma.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t turn around or tilt her head. She stays as she was, still. Keiji stares at her silhouette before trudging up to the table and resting his back against it. Only when he was next to her did he see the crystalline tear rolling down her cheek. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ma,” he stutters, hand hovering above her side. He says it again because he doesn’t know better. His mother sobs into her shaking hands, body quaking at the force of her cries. “Mama…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman sobs and sobs until her tears dry onto her cheeks, a print on her candour face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Under the moonlight, she turns to him — her eyes swollen and red — and begs for his forgiveness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Too shocked to say anything, Keiji can only listen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Keiji,” she whispers, caressing his cheek with a pale hand. “I…I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you a better life. You deserve so much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji’s eyes sting but he bites his lips The burn in his eyes is dizzying. His lungs are seconds from collapsing but he keeps his wavering gaze on her, the woman who once fought a passing soldier twice her size for bumping into her five-year-old son in the street and making him topple over, and, for what feels like the umpteenth time tonight, his heart shatters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He ropes one arm around her and pulls. She falls against him, crashing into his chest and dampening his tank. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji wants to fight. He wants to clash heads and run off his temper like Tobio or shout like Issei or fume like Hajime but he can’t. He takes one shuddery breath and lets the tears go. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They sit in the darkness for a long while. By the time both of their tears are dried, his backside aches from hunching over. They quietly shuffle around before he leads his mother to her room. He lays her down on the futon before sneaking back into his own—Tobio entirely oblivious to the waking world.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji sighs, his cheeks tightening with the motion. He turns to his side and watches the trees sway outside from his window. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What has he gotten himself into? </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Grey Knight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There have been a few moments in his life when Keiji truly questioned his sanity but they are scarce. This morning, however, is undoubtedly one of them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes not because of the sun or his actual body clock, no, he wakes because someone had tripped over his thigh and crashed onto the floorboards so harshly that even the chickens in their coop outside shrieked. Keiji’s alert and he rapidly searches his surroundings until his eyes settle onto Issei, who rubs at his knee with a hiss.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His hair is damp, short curls sticking onto his glistening forehead. Whether it was from sweat or his bath is unclear. Keiji tries to blink and cringes, his eyes are still sore from last night and they were most likely swollen, too. There’s a dull headache throbbing at the back of his head, Keiji groans into his hands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, morning! Didn’t mean to wake you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji doesn’t look up, rubs his eyes with his clammy hands and sighs, “Are you alright?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Absolutely, gobsmacking brilliant. Thanks for asking. Are you hungry? Hajime’s cooking.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d rather not eat,” Keiji mutters but Issei chooses to ignore him, already up on his feet and tugging at Keiji’s hand as if that would make the man stand up with him. It works, somewhat, if only because Keiji had never been flexible and the stretch burns his sides. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A slow, triumphant grin works its way onto Issei’s face as another sigh escapes him. He lets himself be ushered into the living room, skidding past their parents’ room. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji’s chest is hollow, the weight of his slumping mother against him a little too fresh in his memory. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei doesn’t seem to notice the flash of torment on his face and keeps pushing him down the long hall until they reach the living room where Keiji had sold his name off to their landlord to pay for their father’s debt just twelve hours ago. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His headache grows. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. You’re awake. Sit,” Hajime instructs him. He’s wearing his beige set of training gear. His brother leans over the fireplace to reach for a ceramic plate, piling it up with freshly cooked millet. Keiji catches a whiff of the grainy thing and nearly gags. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime hands him a bowl, topped with a sliver of the roast fox from dinner and a splash of the whale stew his mother had whisked up. He settles down beside Issei, who had already resumed digging into his own bowl after returning from his mission to rouse Keiji from his slumber. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio, to Keiji’s surprise, is up and bathed. His slim, dark hair acts as a helmet around his scalp with the way it sticks onto his head. He, too, is busy scarfing down his breakfast to notice the few grains of millet stuck on his cheek. He’s wearing his uniform which his mother had dried the day before while the boys were all out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji wordlessly passes him a napkin and the kid dabs at his face, still missing a few whits lining his jaw.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime’s face is twisted more so than usual. His eyebrows, thicker than Issei’s by a mile, are bushy and stitched together. He’s muttering to himself, a deep scowl on his face as he glares at his breakfast. The bowl of millet and stew grows cold in his hands and he jerks when he eats a spoonful. Keiji has half a mind to console him, but then glances over and sees his mother. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The woman he held last night, sobbing away her worries as he culminates, was a shadow of the sun his mother had taken form this morning. Scratch that. Keiji thinks that the dawning star creeping up the horizon does not hold a candle to the sheer brightness that is his mother’s smile. Her lips, gently pulled to the sides as she eyes every one of her sons with a fondness Keiji can only associate with her, moves to form a sentence before she closes them once more. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She’s glowing in her ivory kimono, gentle despite the tiring lines under her eyes. One look at her sleeves gives Keiji all he needs to know. Her eyes find his and her faltering smile returns to its full charge.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you sleep well, Keiji?” she asks softly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji flits his eyes down to his breakfast and nods, the smile on his face a welcomed guest. “Yes. Did you, Ma?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” she starts, “I’ve managed to wake up in time to visit the shrine. Extra luck for your first day.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No one else spoke after that. Tobio, always the quickest to do things, is the first to get up to wash his bowl. Issei takes his sweet time to savour the food, slurping and sipping at the broth in quietude—sometimes, Keiji entertains the idea of the two of them becoming chefs of a daimyo household. Or better yet: </span>
  <em>
    <span>the imperial kitchen</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His daydreams always vaporise within minutes, of course, the reality he lives in too bitter to forget. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime remains wordless even after he’s done with his breakfast, goes to his room to change into his work drabs, and waits for his brothers at the front. His mother observes the morning mutedly, long after the streaks of orange sun envelopes the sky, and Keiji drops to his knees and kisses her temple goodbye. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t miss the slight quiver of her lips and the singular teardrop that falls from her left eye. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a long way from home,” Issei grumbles, sticking his hands down his trousers. He lets out a massive yawn, stretching his arms far enough to tap the back of Keiji’s head. Hajime clicks his tongue at his uncouth attitude but agrees. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It definitely isn’t a commoner’s place.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio huffs as he kicks at the gravel. “I don’t wanna be late for school.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And you won’t, kid,” Hajime reassures him with a pat on his shoulder. Tobio isn’t appeased. “We’re just dropping Keiji off. Make sure everything’s okay, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s far.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime nods. “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The morning breeze is prickling, Autumn’s chilly promise of its return highly evident. Keiji wraps his cloak around himself, snuggling into its warmth as the four of them make their way down the market. It was slowly coming alive, this road, as merchants slowly rose from their abode, creeping out onto their stalls to set up for a brand new day. Keiji spots Mrs Fujito’s stall, barren and empty because of Keiji’s absence, and wonders if he could have Issei talk to her during his return. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Keiji, you’re gonna be so fit if you walk like this every day,” Tobio states confidently, he’s fixing Keiji a stern look—one that invites him to argue but silently diminishes all room for rebuttal at its wake. The man laughs, slightly breathless, slightly hysterical. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe I’ll be fitter than Hajime. I’ll become the family’s first samurai.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio does a double-take and halts his steps. “No, you won’t!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why not?” Issei hums, a slow grin spreading across his face. He steps forwards from where he was walking behind the lot and now looms over Tobio’s short figure. Keiji feels his own mouth twitch but manages to school his features back to nonchalance when he sees Hajime’s brows tick. “I carry a lot of things, too, y’know. I can be the family’s samurai.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no! No, Hajime’s the samurai. You’re the farmer! Keiji is the poet! We all have our roles!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji’s heart sinks a little. He goes to reply but Hajime’s quicker. The eldest ropes one thick arm around Tobio’s scrawny shoulder and tugs him close. “What’s your role then?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m the painter,” Tobio says in the dullest, most stoic face he has ever put on. He stares at Hajime in mild disbelief—as if his favourite brother forgot his role, how dare he!—before he promptly storms off. Issei throws his head back in earnest, his loud laughs echoing throughout the vicinity as a few merchants turn their heads at the four. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nepotism doesn’t look good on you, Tobio,” Issei calls out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio replies but he doesn’t even turn around, “Stop using big words! That’s Keiji’s job!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei guffaws and Hajime sighs into his hands while Keiji trails silently, though amused nevertheless, behind them. It was a perfect morning—the sun’s warmth combatted the breeze, leaving none too hot or too cold. The birds sing on straw roofs before soaring away, flocking towards the clouds in their endless chase. And Keiji, for the first time in a while, is with his brothers. All four of them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This is nice,” he says after a moment’s pause. Hajime grunts in question as he falls into step with him. Issei is up ahead, doing his best to coax the youngest of their band to calm down. “Walking together. We hardly see each other these days.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime slings an arm around Keiji’s shoulders, the stretch prominent from their height difference. Keiji doesn’t mention it, prizes his life at least that much.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Sorry about that, kid,” Hajime says with a grimace. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m literally only two years younger than you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His brother interrupts him with a yelp, his thick brows flying up to his forehead as he goes to pivot so that they are face to face. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Still, </span>
  </em>
  <span>kid.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji feels a smile crawl up his face and he flickers his eyes down to his slippers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“For what?” Keiji asks and stares at him. Hajime’s rubbing the back of his neck forlornly. “You haven’t done anything.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But that’s the problem! I haven’t done anything and I’m the eldest. I’m supposed to be protecting you and I let you take the burden instead.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji knows what he’s supposed to say, but it still feels heavy on his tongue. “It’s fine.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s not,” Hajime sharply rebuts him. His eyes are alit with newfound fury. “It’s not and you know it. I’ll find a way, I promise.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In front of them, Tobio and Issei are still bickering. A trader passes by them, her cart loaded with sacks of millet, no doubt to be sold to the masses once the market opens. Her eyes bulge in bewilderment. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji agrees with him because he doesn’t know what else to say. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They catch up to their brothers quickly enough, Hajime roping Tobio away from Issei’s brunt zingers as Keiji goes to stand between them. Tobio wrestles against Hajime’s hold as if testing the limits of nepotism in itself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Quit it, you two,” Hajime orders at once. Tobio is still struggling against Hajime’s hold to go rip Issei a new one while the man in question simply watches the grappling with merriment. Keiji huffs wonders why Issei takes so much enjoyment in taunting their youngest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji nudges Issei’s side and the man flits down his black gaze to him. They speak of nothing but mirth. Keiji rolls his eyes with a miff. He reminds them, rather forcefully—or as forceful as the mouse of the family can be—, “If we don’t hurry up, I’ll be well late.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, exactly,” Hajime grumbles as he wrestles Tobio into submission and pats his uniform clean of imaginary dust. “Let’s go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At first, the Miya Mansion seemed like any old farmhouse aside from the gatehouse surrounding its perimeter, the lavish sable roof tiling, and the divers of samurai defending the area. So, really, it was unlike any farmhouse Keiji had ever seen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s small,” Tobio mutters. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei blanches, as they near the mansion, Keiji is washed by a jet of relief. The gatehouse up-close is even grander, too intimidating for Keiji to face alone. “Small? No wonder you’re a painter and not a poet like Keiji, you don’t know your words at all, little man.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s small,” Tobio counters, he raises one fine finger to point at the mansion. “It only has three peaks on the roof. The ones near Kyoto and Edo have five.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji purses his lips and counts. Now that Tobio had so casually stripped down the mansion of its glory, it became very easy to scrutinise it. Yes, perhaps it is smaller than the mansions in the capital, that only made sense. Tobio must’ve been studying architecture at his academy. But now that Keiji had really put some thought to it, he can hazily recall a passage in one of the books Hajime had smuggled for him—</span>
  <em>
    <span>An In-Depth Study of the Warrior Class </span>
  </em>
  <span>by Ki Murasaki, an essayist who spent his career picking apart the rigid caste systems which had trapped the Japanese civilisation for the longest time—waxing poetic of the different mansions under the governance of the National Leader and their sizes reflecting a landlord’s power.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The susurrations of passing guards are a bed of needles in which he and his brothers are stepping right onto, barefoot and dusted with dirt and all. Their sharp eyes brush down the four of them, spurning them of dignity. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime, as his duty as the firstborn, tips his chin high and scoffs. He steps ahead of the pack, leading them straight into the mayhem while the samurai’s dark eyes track their every move. Keiji and Issei fall in line behind Tobio, marching up towards the main gates as if they belonged there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And perhaps they really did, Keiji thought bemusedly, he is to be married after all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Halt!” the guard by the gates yells. He points his silver katana at them, hostility cutting all conversations within the mile radius short. “What business do you have with the Miya landlords?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The slight tension which made Hajime’s shoulders jerk up did not escape Keiji. He looks away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Hajime speaks, it is with clear conviction and authority. If the circumstances were different, Keiji might’ve laughed at the irony of the scene. Here, garbing attire meant for peasants—this dull, soot-coloured yukata which not even the lowliest of ronin would wear—, stands a man with his chest puffed out and tone mighty. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re here under the invitation of landlord Miya Atsumu to escort his….” Hajime peeks behind him, making eye contact with Keiji for a brief moment before he continues, “Betrothed…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At once, the samurai erupt in a rambunctious uproar. The one guarding the main gate seems to have frozen while his colleagues roister around the entrance, some laughing and some confirming in rather obnoxious shouts. Hajime crosses his arms and Keiji doesn’t need to see him know he must have that infamous scowl on. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio fists one hand at the back of Hajime’s yukata, eyeing the guards in silence while Issei clicks his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“These </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastards</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Issei mutters, his scunner against the warriors only rising by the second. “Let’s go home.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As they turn, they are stopped by the galloping of horses—thunderous beating of hooves, the sound of cavalry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A good dozen warriors, all on horseback, trot towards the mansion from the opposite direction whence the brothers came from. They wear matching black yukatas, adorned with argent embellishments that glimmer under the morning light. They are all rather burly, a stark opposition to the ones set to guard the gates, with trimmed beards that reach to the middle of their chests and a thick head of hair. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At the very front as their lead, riding in on a black stallion is the Miya landlord—Keiji’s betrothed, looking the same as last night except for his hair which is swept to the right upon their first meeting and now reside rather charmingly on the left side of his face. Unlike the rest of his men, the Miya landlord is clad in a white kimono with diminutive maroon detailing all up his sleeves and across the broad expanse of his chest. They curl prettily on his abdomen. When his troops canter closer, Keiji can finally make out the markings by stomach-- it was a red dragon. They trot to a stop just a little way before the four brothers, Issei and Tobio shuffle towards the centre as they eye the men warily. Their leader steers his horse a few steps forwards, just close enough for Keiji to pick up on the horse’s weak whinny. He goes to step aside and, as he tilts his head up, he’s struck by the deep silver eyes of the young man.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A shiver runs down his spine and Keiji curls his fist to reign it in. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He flits his gaze back to his feet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sire!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji snaps his head to the guards who, now in the presence of their lord, are still and in line. The four brothers move in stride as the cavalry passes them and stroll to the gate. The samurai greets the young man with a deep bow, one that Keiji himself feels at the back of his spine, and uprights himself after a good moment. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Welcome back, we weren’t told to expect you today.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, well,” the young lord agrees coolly. “I’m back. So, open the gateway.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right away, sir! Open the gates!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Two samurai rush up to open the great wooden gates. The cavalry stands still, even till the gates are entirely opened and a few moments after. They move only a beat after their lord’s horse begins to trot forwards and halt right as he stops by the main guard who had scorned the brothers earlier. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And who are they?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The guard perks up, snivelling like a rat with his fat nose in the air. “Who, sir?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Those four men.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji and his brothers go taut at the rather blunt address but all went to see what the lord would ever want from them. The guard shifts his gaze onto them and scowls. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Peasants, all of them. Scammers, too. They claimed to be lord Miya’s betrothed!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As if on cue, the rest of the samurai burst into laughter. The men on horseback remain unphased. Issei stiffens beside him and Keiji goes to give him a firm squeeze on his shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Miya lord darts his eyes towards them, scrutinising each brother until they land on Keiji’s face. Keiji steels his jaw and slightly bows. If nothing else, his mother had told him the importance of respect. Hajime turns around when the lord’s eyes are fixated on his younger brother, sees him bend, and goes to pull Issei and Tobio into a collective show of respect. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Promptly, the laughter ceases. Struck with shock, Keiji rights himself to find the young lord with his fist held to the sky. The samurai falls silent as they stare at the fist and only breathe when the young man lowers his hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll take my brother’s intended,” the young lord states. He turns his horse around to face the brothers. “Which one of you will be?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Akaashi brothers, now all standing with their backs perpendicular to the gravel below them, exchange a look. Under the unforgiving eyes of the battalion, Keiji steps forwards. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime catches his wrist and there’s a warning in his eyes that Keiji knows he shouldn’t ignore but he forces his arm free, an apologetic smile on his face then walks over to the man on horseback to bow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Me, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The lord regards him for a moment before Keiji hears the scuffle of hooves. He stands straight quick enough to watch the young lord and his horse walk past the gates. Keiji throws one last look at his brothers, who meet him with varying degrees of concern and trails wordlessly behind the man. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t keep ya long, kid. What’s my brother done now?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry?” Keiji reels in part from the shock and part because the young lord had kicked off his stallion, landing gruffly in front of Keiji--his shoes crushing the ground where Keiji’s feet were just moments prior. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hands the horse onto a groundsman who leads it away with ease. The lord runs one hand through his hair in a manner too boyish to be considered noble.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My brother,” the young lord says slowly. He steps closer to Keiji. “Yer his affianced or whatever, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji bites his lips, takes a step back—the young lord’s eyes flitting down to the ground to capture the movement. “Oh. Right. No, it was not Lord Atsumu’s fault, sire.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The young lord snaps his head up and quirks one thick brow at him. “Oh? Now that’s rare.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My father is indebted to the Miya Lord. He is the Elder.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re farmers,” Atsumu’s brother—twins, Keiji is sure now—states. His dialect hangs heavy on his tongue and Keiji wonders where young Miya lords are raised, what gilded city do their speech come from? Must be somewhere near Kyoto, a bigger area to govern with a bigger house to live in.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji nods, his fingers coming together. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And ya have to marry his sorry ass why?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji’s eyes widen at the profanity but the young lord is too at ease for him to confront directly. The man’s grey eyes skirt over Keiji’s in a flash before they move on to the gatehouse where several groundsmen are sweeping fallen leaves off the main track. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I…” Keiji starts then pauses. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Was he serious? Was this lord actually that clueless? Maybe he’s taunting him. No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Keiji dismisses that thought as early as it came. </span>
  <em>
    <span>There’s no use in assuming. Might as well come clean with it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He clears his throat and continues, “I  thought it was the most probable way to settle the debt.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The young lord tears his gaze away from his workers and settles them back on Keiji. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Through marriage.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, through marriage…I will give up my name. We weren’t privy to any monies nor could we have given our land and farmhouse, you must understand.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I understand plenty,” the young lord reassures him, two of his hands raised in empathy. Keiji’s heart calms down just a little at it.  “It’s just absurd.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji nearly scoffs, bites his tongue a little too hard to prevent it and winces. “Oh. I’m aware.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What is your name?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Akaashi Keiji. May I ask the young lord of his?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The young lord’s pink lips stretch into a slow smile. Keiji thinks the morning sun is a good look on him, its rays are captured in glinting smears inside those grey eyes. “Osamu. Pleasure to meet ya.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Likewise,” Keiji drawls, mouth following Osamu’s smile.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And why are ya at the mansion today, Akaashi Keiji?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The Miya Lord had only agreed to my arrangement given that I must learn a nobility’s way of life. That means lessons in all sorts of skills and trade fit for a housewife. For Lord Atsumu,” Keiji trails off, voice diminishes as shame drags him back to the darkest corners of his mind the more he speaks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu clicks his tongue and rests his hand on his sash, a thick maroon band across his waist. It sags a tad at the added weight but otherwise remains perfectly still. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s harsh.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It is the least I could do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The young lord doesn’t say anything for a while. He and Keiji merely stood in each other’s presence. The groundsmen abrade the litter of foliage with their rakes, the slightest shadow cast upon their worn faces as the sun begins to dwell further up in the sky. Keiji takes the moment to scan his surroundings. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The estate is far bigger inside, simply by the measure of the expanse of its yard alone is enough to leave Keiji gaping—he doesn’t, of course, if only to protect the last shred of dignity he has left in front of Miya Osamu, who is currently staring at him as though he has two heads. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then, as if things finally clicked, Osamu claps his hands and announces, “I’ve decided, Akaashi Keiji, that I am incredibly impressed with yer wit and valiance. I’ve seen my gramma do all sorta things to debtors and not once have I ever met anyone who has evaded her so tactfully.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, Lord Osamu,” Keiji says with a blink but he is interrupted almost immediately.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“However,” Osamu cuts him off with a sharp look, there’s a darkness in his glacial eyes that Keiji wants to escape from but he is rooted to the spot. “I don’t agree with this settlement. Is there any way I can convince ya to leave the affair entirely?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A moment of silence passes them. Osamu’s eyes widen fractionally at his abrupt response before the return to their hooded state. The young lord’s lips give a little twitch, but Keiji is unfazed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you that confident in your answer?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji nods and clasps his hands together. “Once I stand for something, I seldom retract my sentiments,” he replies. Then, as an afterthought for politeness, “Lord Osamu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Name yer price and I’ll have it seen to ya within the fortnight,” Osamu bargains. He’s venturing closer to Keiji’s space, but the Akaashi brother simply raises a hand and steps back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There is no such amount of money that could ever let me leave my family in the fray while I run free.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I see,” Osamu murmurs. He then retracts his steps and gives Keiji a huff. “Then what worldly possession do you hold dearest to your heart, aside from your family, Akaashi Keiji?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji doesn’t need to think. The answer rolls off his tongue like his own name. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I love literature. Poetry.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu’s grin is ecstatic. He bounds, again, into Keiji’s space. Keiji takes another step back but Osamu remains unaware and says coyly, “How fortunate. I adore poetry and prose. I have a proposition if you’ll hear me, Akaashi Keiji.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I highly doubt it would sway me, Lord Osamu,” Keiji replies deadpanned, “but I will entertain you if nothing else.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu doesn’t pay any mind to the latter part of his response and launches into his proposal. “I’ll continue to persuade you into rejectin’ this marriage and if I can’t, I’ll grant ya a poem, the finest poetry Kyoto has ever seen!” Osamu’s eyes turn to slits as he whispers, “Nothing smuggled books can buy.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji feels the dig in his chest, humours the idea of choking the man before him, but—as the saying goes—the itch to know more is too strong for him to ignore. “And how will I know the veracity of such poems?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll lend you anthropology, my private one, once I’ve reached five failed persuasions.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A breeze blows through the gardens. Keiji peers up at the sky and sees the clouds sliding slowly on. They, too, on a serious endeavour to meet the ends of the horizon. And perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, this little deal. Keiji knows he’ll never give up his stand on this marriage, that is fact and facts do not change. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Deal,” Keiji declares smoothly. “What will your first be then?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu clears his throat and smirks. “Easy,” he brags. “Yer puttin’ yourself to face the brutal whips of classism and unfiltered insults from all yer tutors and the monarch. Do ya think so little of yourself to wager your well-being away?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, he sees Osamu’s chest rise in confidence and Keiji takes great pride in the exact moment he sees that flame extinguished. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No. I quite like to picture myself as the valiant man you had so amicably described me as earlier. Facing such people will only strengthen my mind, don’t you think?” And, without giving him a second to spare, Keiji demands, “Your poem?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu’s mouth falls open and closes a few times before he is capable of formulating a proper response. “You win this round, Akaashi Keiji. Alright, let me think. Alright. I got one. Ya ready?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Keiji blurts, his eyes practically shining with excitement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu stares at him before he gives in. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Things that sway in the breeze, high pine branches, and topmost bamboo leaves, ships running on the seas with sails raised, in the sky, the drifting clouds, in the fields, spiked pampas grass.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If he closes his eyes, Keiji can picture the image, can almost feel the tough bark of bamboo and the tickles of pampas grass against his knees. He doesn’t, though, and smiles at the young lord. “That is quite pretty. Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a well-deserved gift,” Osamu claims. “Do you know where you’re heading?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji frowns, pulled out of this little pocket he and Osamu created. “No. They only told me to come at seven. Ah! What’s the time?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry. I know where the tutors are, I’ll take you there if you want.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The relief tastes salty on his tongue as if a replacement for tears and Keiji bows deeply to his companion. “Thank you, Lord Osamu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu doesn’t respond right away. He waits until Keiji has uprighted himself before he grins, “It’s the least I can do for such a pleasurable company.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He arrives home no later than sundown, much to his family’s relief. Issei is waiting for him, sitting cross-legged by the patio as he sorts out his harvest before screaming his arrival. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then, at once, Hajime and Tobio sprint outdoors, both barefoot as they barrel into Keiji’s worn body. Keiji wraps his two arms around them. They smell of cooking and sweat. He hugs them anyway. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re alive,” Hajime muses when he steps away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio huffs with a turn of his nose, “I bet school was boring.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey now, hey now,” interrupts Issei as he steps in to make space between his brothers. Hajime and Tobio retract their steps good-naturedly and Keiji gives them a tired smile. “Let him rest, for God’s sake. He just got back.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you expect them to kill me?” Keiji asks with an amused huff when they begin walking into the house. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He slips off his sandals at the doorway when Hajime responds, “Obviously not. But you never know what those rich folks are like. And that young lord was looking at you like you were freshly caught tuna.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah. Didn’t like him,” Issei adds with a curl of his lips. “Creepy.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio leads them into the living room and then runs down the right opening to what Keiji knows would be the corridor down to the kitchen. They follow him as a trio, although the squeeze was a bit much for their rather thin halls.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji doesn’t say that he found the young lord to be quite pleasant, disregarding his constant challenges. “He’s Lord Atsumu’s twin.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No wonder they look so alike,” Hajime muses as they turn around the corner to the kitchen. Steam blankets the room and Keiji has to blink a few times to adjust. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei shudders. “Fucking creepy, I swear.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Language!” a soft voice chastises near the window.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A warm smile invades his face before he could even stop it and Keiji gravitates towards the stove almost instinctually, his arms slowly rising to catch his mother in an embrace.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How was your day, dearest?” she asks when he pulls away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji huffs, exhaustion setting deep in his bones and he sags in his stand, slouching ever so slightly so that he and his mother were eye-to-eye. She lifts a hand to cup his cheek and Keiji leans his weary head into her palm as his eyes flutter shut. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Taxing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that so?” His mother retracts her hand and Keiji wills his eyes to open. “They didn’t hurt you did they?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At this, everything seemed to come to a halt. Conversations behind him happening steadfastly crash to a stop and all noise from the kettle and pot cease to exist. It’s a while before Keiji can breathe again before he looks up into his mother’s honest eyes with a reflection of his heart—pure, true. He grabs her hands in his and squeezes them gently.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, they didn’t. I just had a lot to learn.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not too late to quit, you know. I’ve got a thing set up for me at the inn,” Hajime quips from the table. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji lets a short laugh bubble from him as he turns to help his brothers. “I’ve made my bed, it’s time for me to lie in it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re too stiff, Kei,” Issei groans from the head of the table. He fetches five clay bowls from the cabinet. “Learn to live a little, yeah? Makes us oldies look bad.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime scoffs as he steps around Tobio—who has taken refuge by the door, sitting on his haunches, with his drawing parchment out and a stick of charcoal gripped tightly in his pale pingers—to grab the cooling steamer. “Speak for yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji hums. “It’s not so bad, learning.” He pivots in place to grab the plated mapo tofu at the counter and brings it over the table next to the steaming pot of chicken and lentil soup. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Keiji, can you get the millet, please?” His mother asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before he could even respond, Hajime was already walking around him to grab the pot of steaming whit. “Got it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What did they teach you over there?” Issei queries. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji rests his back against the low desk, recalls the restless hours sitting in front of three tutors--all mean, all unforgiving--and the endless lessons on socialising communication, and aesthetics. He grunts. “Social etiquette and fine dining rules, mostly.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Boring,” Tobio mutters from the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji huffs, a tender smile on his face. “Yes, I thought so, too. But they had me reading. Ma, can you believe? They’re letting me read.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, but that’s not all that good, sweetheart. You’ve been reading since you were younger than Tobio,” his mother replies with a stir. Tobio clicks his tongue from his little corner but says nothing else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji kicks off the counter and goes to step closer. “Yes, but never these books. I had literature in abundance. Really, some of these passages… we’re at the brink of awakening. I can feel it. They’re just so enlightening.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m glad you can at least have some use of those lessons,” Hajime admits in earnest. He places the pot of millet on the table and grins. Keiji grins right back and feels settled for once in a long time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. You might as well get smarter,” Issei chimes in, drawing closer until he’s at Keiji’s side, slinging an arm around him. “But don’t let all that new intellect get to your head, okay, scrub?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That didn’t even make sense.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re the shame of this family,” Hajime mutters as Issei ropes him into the embrace.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere in the background, their mother goes to call for Tobio who answers with a non-committal hum, fingers still brushing across his workbook in a blur of blacks and greys. Their mother sighs, “Go help your brothers put the rest of the food in front.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Tobio mumbles lowly before he closes his parchment, rolling the charcoal inside and setting it aside on top of a counter before he comes towards the three of them—dodging Issie’s flailing long arms expertly,—and goes to pick up the pot of millet on the table with the tea towels Hajime had used earlier to lift it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Issei heaves a sigh just as Tobio walks out of the doorway. “Hey, Kei, maybe you can spare some of your new lessons on him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji chuckles but is immediately silenced by his mother’s quick warning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No making fun of your brother! Now go help him out and be useful.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am,” Issei barks immediately before he slips out of the room, undoubtedly off to go to his own room instead of helping Tobio. Their mother is entirely oblivious to his absence at the stove, stirring away without a care in the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime sneers at the spot Issei had stood on, “And he thinks I’m wrong for calling him the shame of this family.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Truly shameful,” Keiji affirms with a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His brothers didn’t come with him the next morning. He had exclusively told them not to, really. After the chaos that was yesterday’s affair, Keiji wants more than anything for the track to the Miya Mansion, a time to clear his head, a reset before he faces the jabs of the elite.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sky is greyer than usual and herds of fat clouds hang over the village. He curses, knows he didn’t pack anything to shield him from the oncoming rain aside from his cloak. He kicks at the gravel beneath him in frustration, sending a few grits tumbling away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Woah, someone’s angry!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji snaps his head up and finds himself bowing almost immediately.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lord Atsumu,” Keiji greets mid-bow. “What are you doing here?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I’ve got a friend who works here. I aim to visit him twice a week. And yourself?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lord Atsumu’s neat hair is hidden and tucked away in his cloak’s hood—a passable disguise in these parts. He’s alone, no samurai or his twin shadowing in the distance. Keiji flits his eyes up and meets his aurum gaze. A flash of silver eyes hits him and Keiji blinks a couple of times to clear his vision away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Heading over to the Miya Mansion, sire.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Atsumu yowls with a jerk. “Right! Yer lessons, how are they?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji tangles his hands together, looking everywhere but the young lord. “Enlightening. Aren’t you meant to have lessons as well?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well. Yes, but it’s not like they really care, y’know?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu’s voice rings clear in his head—</span>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re puttin’ yourself to face the brutal whips of classism and unfiltered insults from all yer tutors and the monarch. Do ya think so little of yourself to wager your well-being away?”— </span>
  </em>
  <span>Keiji bites his inner cheek. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ya probably should ditch those sandals though,” Atsumu points out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji eyes his footwear—they’re not as smooth as he first owned them, these bamboo slippers Hajime bought for him for a birthday present two years ago. When had he last washed them? Keiji slips one leg behind the other. “My sandals?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re tacky. It’s like an open invitation for insults.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji knows deep down that shallow people are of shallow heart, that there is a limit to their awareness—but it still stings all the same. Keiji clenches his hand into a fist and unfurls them after a deep exhale. He doesn’t answer the young lord, instead, he bows minutely and sidesteps him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, hey! Where are ya goin’?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji blows out a shaky exhale but keeps walking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hopes today would turn out slightly better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gods, he hopes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Taijitu</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Atrocious!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>His tutor’s glare, scathing and hateful, burns like a scar branding Keiji’s pale skin. The man flicks his wet brush southwards, sending droplets of ink splattering across the piece of parchment Keiji slaved over the past hour. He flinches but clasps his hands together to ground himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji bites his tongue. He can’t quit now—not after he had so bravely taken on the twin lords and especially not after he assigned himself to play sacrificial lamb for his father’s mistakes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No, he has to do this. If not for himself, then for his brothers. For Tobio, who still has so much left to learn at school. For Hajime, who works so hard to become a samurai and climb classes. For Issei, who is always there when Keiji needs a hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji ducks his head and forces himself to apologise. The bitterness wells deep within his core, but he knows if he so much as lifts his finger wrong he might as well just go home. The tutor clicks his tongue and hisses something about needing a break.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s shuffling before the sliding door slams shut. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji doesn’t lift his head until he’s well sure he’s alone and, even then, he doesn’t let himself unbend for a long moment, shaky breaths warming the trembling fingers sitting quietly on his lap. His vision blurs but he doesn’t cry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not because he deems it cowardly, he’d very much like to wail to anyone who’d hear him, but because there’s a low hum coming from outside. A simple melody, sweet and light mimic the singing of a songbird. The voice in which it is delivered is raspy, an incandescent tone against the stark screeching of the cicadas around the mansion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji slides the door ajar and peers out, his nose brushing against the bamboo.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya Osamu strolls along the peristyle, singing to himself before halting his steps—Keiji’s breath catches in his throat and he ducks his head back inside until he hears the song again. The song resumes with Osamu bending down to sit along the ledge of the corridor, outlooking the atrium.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only then does Keiji realise the bento, polished with red tints and black flowers dripping down its sides, Osamu sets down beside him. He pops the top and Keiji’s stomach rumbles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu reaches down to hoist the glossy onigiri up but hesitates. Keiji furrows his brows, for what had the young lord been waiting for? When Osamu snaps his head up, silver meeting gunmetal blue, Keiji feels the colour drain from his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Akaashi Keiji,” Osamu greets with a smile. He returns his onigiri to the bento. “Good afternoon.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji steps out of the room in a second and goes for a deep bow. “Good afternoon, Lord Osamu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yer flatterin’ me. What’s with all the formalities?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But you’re a lord,” Keiji reasons when he straightens up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu sighs, his gaze askance. “Only by name,” he mutters before perking up. The greys in his eyes swirl in the heat of the afternoon sun. Keiji bites the insides of his cheeks.  “Say, can I convince ya to not marry my stupid brother?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs. “Do I have a choice?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You always have a choice,” Osamu quips. The young lord pats at the space next to him and Keiji takes one tentative step after the other until he’s right beside him, feeling the cool wind whispering against his exposed ankles. Keiji lowers himself until he can tuck his kimono well enough to sit functionally over the ledge of the peristyle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The atrium is breathtaking—an open-air garden, it's ground littered with white pebbles to cover the earth beneath which offsets the onyx rocks outlining the koi pond pleasantly. The fish swim in hues of crimson and golds round and round their little residence, some floating under the shade the red maple tree beside it provides. It looms over the entire garden, tinting the sky rose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji smoothens his navy kimono down, hoping the creases won’t show under his sash and finally faces the young lord in earnest. Osamu’s silver eyes are on him and blazing, waiting and waiting for Keiji.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope the poem you’ll grant me is even better than the first,” Keiji remarks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu sputters, eyes widening in shock before he sniffs, taking a bite out of the onigiri in his hand. “Fine. Number two of why you shouldn’t marry Atsumu: your brothers loathe him. To them, he’s not just a debt collector. He’s the smug noble who swept their baby brother up.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not the youngest,” is all Keiji says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The young lord stares at him for a moment before he tips his head back in a laugh. Keiji eyes the rice ball in his hand warily, a hand hovering above his lap just in case he had to reach out and catch it. As the breeze blew in, whistling in his ear, Keiji pauses when he realises Osamu’s laugh blends seamlessly into their song.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The lord moves forwards, his fringe casting over his argent eyes. Keiji doesn’t breathe. “You are somethin’ else, Akaashi.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Keiji agrees after a while. His ears are still tingling in the absence of such melodic laughter. “Well.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu wheezes and uprights himself at last. He takes a few calming breaths before he presses on, “But y’know I’m right. Your brothers don’t like him. And it’s not only him, your brothers aren’t gonna everythin’ you’re learnin’ right now. The noble life, literature, art…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My younger brother goes to an academy where he’s studying to become a painter.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh? That’s interesting.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I think so,” Keiji begins monotonously, “I would advise you, Lord Osamu, to not make such baseless assumptions about me and my family. As I said, I seldom change my stand once I’ve resigned to something.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Humans aren’t always as strong as they think,” Osamu muses but raises his hands, placating. “I apologise for crossing any lines. How’s this? I’ll give ya a Haiga today. Light coloured peonies, keep fresh, ever so long.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji hums. “Not as flashy as the first, but I like it. It carries a subtleness? I’m not too sure how to describe it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nice, right? I told ya I’d get good ones.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d be concerned if you couldn’t deliver,” says Keiji with a small laugh. Osamu furrows his brows at him while he finishes his first onigiri. Keiji eyes the other two rice balls in the bento and prays his famished stomach would not out him. “I thought nobles had a vast library at their disposition at all times.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t be wrong. We got one, just deeper in the mansion. You probably wouldn’t find it since Gramma got you studying’ out here. I’m just rusty. Haven’t been back in ages.” Osamu claps his hands clean from the rice above the atrium then adds, after seeing the frown tugging at Keiji’s lips, “Maybe I’ll take you there someday.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I would like that,” Keiji blurts out. He has questions for the young man of his absences, wonders where he left to, but the promise of a whole library distracts him. As though he couldn’t be even more embarrassed, his stomach decides now is high time to grumble awake. The man cowers in embarrassment as he turns away from the young lord.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you hungry? Did they not give you lunch?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I forgot to pack mine this morning, it’s alright.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu gawks, “Gramma’s got ya learnin’ with no food? That’s worse than flogging in the city square. Here, take one.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, no, please. I couldn’t,” Keiji refuses, a palm out to push the bento box Osamu was shoving towards him away. The young lord grunts in frustration.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Akaashi, I insist. It’ll be very rude of you to refuse your landlord’s offer.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji pauses, hands falling limply on his lap before one reaches out to grab an onigiri from Osamu’s outstretched bento box. The young lord’s grey eyes track his every move until Keiji bites into the rice ball.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is a simple taste—the sweetness of the soy sauce dancing harmoniously with the grilled salmon inside. Keiji moans and chokes on his bite as he tries to hide the sound, ushering to swallow the chyme in his mouth before he hacks a coughing fit. Osamu’s thick brows draw together in concern.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ya alright?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m,” Keiji begins before he coughs again. He speaks only when the itch subsides from his throat. “I’m good. Just… this is so delicious, Lord Osamu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Akaashi nods fervently, eyes shining. “I feel like I’m about to die because of how good this is.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, shucks! Akaashi, ya sure know how to make a man smile,” Osamu crows, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. His eyes disappear into crescents as the grin on his face stretches wider and wider. “I made these myself, can ya tell? Got my super-secret grilled salmon recipe, too!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You cook?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Course! If there’s anythin’ I love more than a good poem, it’s food! Eat more, eat more.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji didn’t need a second invitation. He eats through his first rice ball in record time, gobbling up the second at Osamu’s offer. The grey-eyed man observes Keiji keenly as he stuffs his face with the delicious food. Keiji seldom had rice—he can only count on one hand the number of times he had tasted the grainy thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yer proper starvin’,” Osamu notes. Keiji rolls his eyes back at a particularly good bite but he masks his mouth with one palm and nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got up at five and I didn’t have time to pack my lunch. Plus, white rice is delicious.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t eat rice that often, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji shakes his head, taking another bite of that grilled salmon goodness. Gods, he nearly shivered. “We have millet. We sell our rice.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I see. Well, eat up and get stronger so you can buy your own rice.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji stops mid-bite at Osamu’s words. He feels his heart thud especially hard for the past three beats and the man’s throat too-dry to speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Keiji says once he finds his voice, which sounds too croaky in his ears for his liking, “Lord Osamu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu smiles widely back. “No problem, Akaashi Keiji.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji’s classes are no less difficult, but after a week of constantly turning up, his tutor’s menace lessens to petty remarks and silent treatments—far gentler aggression than his first few days.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Make sure you read everything in this book by Monday,” his literature tutor spits, the two grey strands of his moustache swaying with his enunciation. “Class dismissed.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Giddiness bubbles within him. He understands now why Tobio was always so ecstatic on Friday afternoons, ready to greet the weekend for the rest he deserves. Keiji waits for the scholar to exit the room before he tidies up his scrolls, placing them gently inside the straw bag his mother had weaved for him as a birthday present yesteryear. Not once did he ever think he’d own scrolls. He’s grinning as he leaves the room, turning only to slide the door close before he’s making his way down the peristyle and towards the main patio.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>A flock of samurai are guarding the gatehouse, staring up at the sky listlessly as they sit on their hardened bottoms for the day to pass them by. There’s a spring in his step, a lightness he hadn't felt in a long while, and it all comes to a halt when he crashes into a hard chest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my, y’alright? That was completely my ba—Oh, Akaashi, it’s you! Done for the day?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji perks up at the familiar voice and deflates when he catches sight of the right-parted wisps of hair Lord Atsumu is currently carding his fingers through. “Good afternoon, Lord Atsumu. Yes, I’m done with my lesson. Have you finished as well?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep! Got tasked to write over the weekend and everything. Hey, Akaashi, about what happened the other day at the market…I’d like to apologise. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. I just thought I was givin’ ya free advice but I understand it was rude of me,” the lord trails off, noble head hanging. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji opens his mouth and shuts it. What was he to say? Atsumu should apologise as a human but as a lord that was beneath him. Lordship is abused whole and wide, even before the Miya landlords came to his village and bought everything within it. But here he was, bowing ever so slightly (but bowing nonetheless) for Keiji’s forgiveness. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keiji’s</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man clears his throat, one hand reaching to clutch the straw bag closer to himself. “Er, thank you, Lord Atsumu. I understand.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh good,” Atsumu sighs in relief, wheezing as he comes up, “I was kinda scared you’re gonna hate my guts and that wouldn’t really work well with being my husband and stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t have to love you to marry you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This, for some reason, strikes Atsumu pale. Both of his arms come to perch on his waist and he shifts his weight to his right leg, seemingly deep in thought before he answers. “I suppose. Yeah, sure. That only makes sense,” he mutters to himself, rubbing at his chin. “ Still, I’d like to redeem myself. Will ya accompany me to the familial tea ceremony this Saturday?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Keiji baulks. Over the course of this week, Keiji has only learned a few things of the ceremonial art of tea. He’d rather walk off a cliff than go in with little to no knowledge of its performance. And familial, of all things! That meant the young lords and the Miya monarch. “I feel faint.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, hang on—don’t panic just yet. Hey, you with me, Akaashi?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I… just surprised. I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lord Atsumu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, it wouldn’t be so bad. Like a mini test, mostly.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A test would mean revision,” murmurs Keiji resolutely. “I haven’t the time and I’m unequipped with the knowledge to ever attend one this early in my studies.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, don’t fret,” Atsumu reassures good-naturedly, the beam on his face is almost distracting enough for Keiji to forget the possible humiliation he’ll face at the ceremony. In front of that </span>
  <em>
    <span>monarch</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “It’s not hard at all. I’ll teach you the basics. If ya want, that is.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Keiji stares up at the man he sold himself to, he finds the gilded eyes downcast and unnaturally clear. The murderous sheen in his eyes is entirely gone from the night they first met, in their absence, stood an honest man hoping to show Keiji his traditions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji clenches his fist and releases his fingers with a huff. “Alright,” he agrees hesitantly. Atsumu’s head snaps up and the beam on his face is blinding. Keiji grimaces. “I’d need all the help I can get.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s great! Oh, I swear it’ll be worthwhile. Come, come.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu leads them to a lovely tea room, separated from the main buildings of the Miya mansion. The man toes off his slippers at the entrance and signals for Keiji to do the same, only sliding the doors open when the two men are barefoot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is a luxury. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji had never been invited to the inner courts of the Miya mansion, simply the Northern ward nearest to the gatehouse where all his tutors come to teach him. But even this, just the tiniest inkling of what life the Miya lords live, is enough to buckle his knees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bright azure plates, handcrafted from China, are displayed proudly on the mantle parallel to the doorway. On top of its shelf, hung three tall paintings—each panel a continuation of the other. Keiji trails his eyes across the illustration, following the harsh strokes of rooftops and salmon tints of the houses. He takes in each detail, startling when Atsumu comes to stand beside him with a low hum.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ya like paintings?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji goes to reply but finds his mouth unbearably dry. He doesn’t take his eyes off the illustration when he speaks, “No. It’s beautiful,” Keiji adds hastily. “I…this feels too familiar. What is it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess,” Atsumu teases. Keiji shakes his head once, the words are lost on him and he is robbed of his intuition after hours of work. “It’s the village.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Keiji snaps his head to the young lord. “The village? </span>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> village, Kameoka?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t know there were any others nearby. Maybe I should tell gramma so we can think about expanding,” Atsumu laughs. Keiji throws him a glance before his eyes flit back to the painting and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he sees it now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The marketplace, even Akizuki’s fish stall, is vibrant and alive in oranges and pale yellows. He steps closer and halts, looking over to the young lord in silent questioning to which the man acknowledges with a soft nod. Keiji closes in until he could physically reach out and touch the scrolls. He daren’t, but he could. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lower down to the left, he sees where the commonplace merges into the big road, the High Street—where the upper crust of society goes to dine. Even further to the left, onto the third panel, he sees the Miya mansion. Perhaps, it was the only thing highlighted in their entire painting, each stroke of colour has much more hue and brightness than that of the entire painting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He counts the roofs just as Tobio had when his brothers came to escort him on his first day. Sees their smaller-than-Kyoto peaks and smiles to himself. Keiji pivots and goes to see the right-most panel. There, on the edge, is his father’s farm and some others. His hand ghosts over it but never landing.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu’s gilded eyes are already on, warm when Keiji turns. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Find somethin’?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fascinating,” Keiji marvels. “But I must be home in time for dinner. If you could please…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! Right. Course. Yeah. C’mere. Sit on this side,” Atsumu directs as he falls to his haunches.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> There’s a shallow rosewood table at the centre, its warmth blending in nicely with the carob wood panels that make up the four walls of the tearoom. The blonde settles on one side and gestures for Keiji to join him. The man gingerly follows, sinking to his knees with a tentative gaze. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ya wanna know the secrets to a great ceremony, Akaashi? It’s a skill you must have to be in the present.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji stares at him and blinks. “I apologise, I don’t quite understand—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not many do,” Atsumu comments solemnly... “Anyhow, tea ceremony. Usually served alongside a meal, but I can’t really cook… that’s...We normally have the maids serve us now.” The faraway look in his eyes ages him a fair bit, Keiji almost thinks he’s a different person, but he returns and wipes the dejection away. “Also, we were supposed to perform a deep bow before entering the space.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji jerks in alarm. “Oh, shall I go now?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s alright. Just remember to do it. Yer smart aren’t ya?” Keiji doesn’t respond, Atsumu doesn’t mind. “Next, the kettle.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The lord sits a little straighter then pushes himself to his feet and walks towards the left side of the room. Keiji’s eyes follow him and land on an array of tea instalments—a ceramic teapot with hints of maroon and charring black, a set of clean polished ceramic cups with the same detailing, a set of bamboo apparatuses among which were a steep ladle and a whisk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yer gonna have to sit there in silence as gramma goes on about the theme of the ceremony. Then I’ll come and start the preparations starting with this.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s past sundown once Atsumu slides the doors apart again. The chilly Autumn air hits him and Keiji does his best to tug at the sleeves of his kimono without revealing too much of his inner-wear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you for this, Lord Atsumu,” Keiji says with a deep bow once the two of them are outside, the tea room closed behind them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu’s lips pull to a slow smile. “Ah, please. It was nothin’. You’re comin’ tomorrow, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. I hope so.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s good,” Atsumu sighs, the strands of his hair flutter in the breeze and they come to rest against his forehead. Windswept. Keiji wants to look away. He doesn’t only because Atsumu opens his mouth to speak again. “Ya know, you’re really smart. Not like those stuck-up scholars. Just smart. Intuitive.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji goes to reply but finds his mouth unbearably dry. He swallows spit as his gaze goes askance. “Thank you, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If anythin’ I should be thanking you for this evening. I haven’t had that much fun in a tea ceremony since I was a child.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well… I am glad that I could play pleasant company.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re more than pleasant.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji’s breath hitches in his throat. He’s still looking down at his slippers, his toes curling. When he moves to look up, Atsumu’s gaze catches him, a physical hold—no trace of that giddy, playful lord he had shared tea with just a few moments ago. Then Atsumu steps back and bows curtly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodnight,” he mutters before turning around to walk away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji watches him glow under the candlelight before he disappears into the mansion, leaving Keiji stunned in his wake. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Tea Ceremony</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Keiji stands in front of the Miya Mansion, his fingers shaking like the naked branches of the looming spring blossom trees peeping out of the gatehouse. They are stripped naked by this time of year and Keiji feels it in his soul. He is laying himself bare for anyone to strike, open and defenceless if he goes through with this invite.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The guard merely glances at him before motioning for his colleagues to bear the gates open. They let him in with minimal fuss and the breath that escapes him is so full of relief, he allows himself to sag momentarily before continuing to make his way towards the Eastern courts of the mansion where Atsumu had taken him yesterday. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His sandals go click-clack against the gravel and the gaps between his toes grow sweatier with each step. Keiji brushes his sleeves down and slaps the flat of his chest a few times as he turns the corner to reveal the quaint teahouse. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Its doors once sealed with no guest to entertain, are now slid open to allow the air to flow in. Keiji stretches his neck from where he stands to see if he could catch a peek of who awaited him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Searching for somethin’?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji jolts, a hand flying to his chest as if that would aid him to regain his breathing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu piques one thick brow at him and Keiji bows. “Good morning, Lord Osamu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Again,” Osamu scoffs, “drop the formalities, will ya? Makes me feel less inclined to be polite.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Charming,” Keiji deadpans. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He steps away to straighten his posture and takes the time to fully appreciate the man beside him. Unlike yesterday’s wear, Osamu is clad in a complimenting black kimono top and a matching beige hakama. A thick white sash riches his waist. Over his shoulders is an equally striking, ebony haori. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Like what ya see?” Osamu teases.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji does his utmost best to not roll his eyes and marginally gets away with a slow blink. “Isn’t it inappropriate to romance your brother’s betrothed?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yikes. To be quite honest with ya, ‘Kaashi,'' Osamu starts. Keiji squints his eyes at him at the shortening of his surname but remains silent. “I’d never think you'd come.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And why not?” Keiji replies just as fast. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu stares down at his hands only then did Keiji realise he was carrying a rather large bamboo bento and whatever was concealed inside it smelled divine. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dunno. Just didn’t think it was your thing, that’s all.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji bites his lip and nods once before he starts his steps, the young lord tailing right behind him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You look awfully well-dressed.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why, yer flattering’ me again, Kaashi.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just an observation I’ve gathered based on the dress you’d normally wear.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu hums. They’re close, but not close enough to hear any chatter inside the teahouse. He sees the room in much brighter lighting than last night and sees the pretty refractions the rays of the sun make on those azure China plates. The table had been moved, too, leaving a spacious front for the guest and hosts to converse. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You seem pretty calm. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d say you were a noble myself.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head and rings his arms behind his back. “Don’t flatter me, Lord Osamu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m just been’ honest,” says Osamu. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji takes a deep breath as he stops in front of the steps leading into the tearoom.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m simply emulating lord Atsumu’s teachings.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Osamu hawks. “Atsumu taught you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. He was very kind, too,” Keiji adds briskly as he moves into a deep bow. “He showed me a few things in the tearoom yesterday after my lessons. I wouldn’t say I’m confident in it, but I’m hoping to pass the monarch’s judgement.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good luck,” Osamu whispers back as they come up from their bows, “For your sake, I hope you do, too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji steps aside to slip off his sandals.  Osamu does the same on the opposite side to not obstruct the entryway. Keiji waits silently for the young lord to enter the room first before he bows his head past the doorway and finds himself in the tranquil comfort of the teahouse. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu puts down the bento box in his hands and goes to plate it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is an assortment of floral-inspired confections, all lined prettily against the bento. There are pink cube rice cakes with cherry blossoms painted on top and even white, powdery balls. Keiji’s mouth waters. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you make these?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Some,” Osamu admits and goes to point at the ones that were his--a rotund peach cake with three artfully placed slits to signify petals of a blooming flower and another textured lime-green sphere with yellow embellishments. “The cooks did most of it, though. I just serve.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So is the monarch the guest today?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“In a way. She is returning from Kyoto, ” Osamu hums. He carefully places the lids of said bentos on the side. “And you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, you’re our guest. So, just let me know if something’s wrong. I’ll sit next to you and you can tap me on my heel when no one’s looking.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s highly improper.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s improper?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Both Keiji and Osamu whip their heads to the open doors where Atsumu is staring at the both of them with a wolfish grin, it falls the second his eyes find his brother. Osamu sighs beside Keiji and does nothing else to acknowledge the man by the doorway and returns to his confectioneries. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji does his best to bow while on his haunches. “Lord Atsumu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Morning, Keiji,” he greets back, but his eyes are transfixed on the man sitting in front of Keiji. “Osamu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji furrows his brows as the two brothers stare each other down. To think of it, he has never been with the twins at a single time. One of them had always been absent in the presence of the other. Osamu glares up at the heir, gaze piercing. Atsumu sneers back. The tension is so thick that Keiji feared he might actually burst if no one breaks the silence. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu lips are curved into a scowl. He crosses his arms across his chest, the white fabric of his haori wrinkles under the pressure. “You came back.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I did. Gramma wanted me home.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu tilts his head up, scrunching his nose as he flicks his gaze away. “Bold of you to come back considering you ran away.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji flits his eyes to the grey-haired man. Osamu’s mouth dips into a scowl and he’s getting up from his haunches. “It’s my house, too,” Osamu replies after a while.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh? I hadn’t noticed,” bites Atsumu, face red. “It’s just that you've been gone for a whole year!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji’s ears perk at that and he snaps his head back to Osamu whose scowl had gotten impossibly deeper. His eyes are hooded, turning those silver eyes black with irritation. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, shut yer traps,” complains a croaky voice. “Atsumu, move out of the way. You’re blocking the entrance.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Both twins, and Keiji by extension, freeze as they turn their heads to the voice. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Monarch Miya stands proudly in her festive kimono--a soft maroon and white one with blades of flowers all along the front and back in silvery embellishments.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Gramma,” Atsumu whines after he steps away.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut it and get inside. I thought I specifically told you to prepare my tea and yet you’re still standing here. Must I talk to your linguistics tutor? It seems you’re finding language rather difficult to understand.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu huffs but keeps his silence, throwing one last glare past Keiji’s shoulder to his twin before he bends down into a bow and removes his slippers. The monarch bows only her head and goes to slip her slippers off. Atsumu stands by behind her until she steps into the establishment and he can finally enter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, Osamu, you’re back. Welcome home, dear.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, Gramma,” Osamu says gruffly. “Thank you for inviting me, too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Silly boy, you’re not cut off from this family just yet.” Keiji sees the exact moment that familial warmth is drained from her face, replaced with a stoic facade she has mastered for years. She regards him with no words, merely acknowledges his presence with a rake of her eyes. Keiji bow swiftly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Akaashi Keiji, ma’am. From the Akaashi farm.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The what?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“His father is indebted and so he sold himself for marriage, Gramma,” Atsumu reminds her. Keiji doesn’t dare lift his head, not until the monarch says something to him. He knows where to not cross his line. The monarch says nothing and then huffs, crossing her legs to sit opposite of Osamu. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You are foolish for wanting to soil our heritage, Atsumu,” the lord berates with a sniff. Keiji doesn’t let her words sting him. There are other problems in his life and as long as he can settle his father’s debt, as long as his family has a house to sleep in, Keiji will take it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Gramma,” Osamu starts but falters. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Raise your head, boy,” the monarch instructs him. Keiji does so obediently and goes to sit back on his haunches with his spine ramrod straight. “Atsumu, get inside and get on with it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, gramma.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The heir moves almost mechanically. Heading straight towards the tea instalments and starts with the same motions he went over last time—a thorough and gentle cleansing of the bar, then the whisk and the ladle. He goes to measure out the matcha powder first, dropping it spoon by spoon into the bowl before he smoothly lowers the kettle over the bowl just enough to cover half of it as emulsions of green bubbles start to pop. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me, boy,” the monarch starts. “Who thought themselves divine to give you the right to step foot into our teahouse?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I did, gramma,” Atsumu replies immediately. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Get back to your spot and do your whisking! You want to ruin our family’s entire lineage and now you want to ruin our culture as well? You shall not speak during the whisking. Have you no respect for the divine art and culture we nobles must uphold?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu doesn’t say much after that, he isn’t allowed to. Keiji eyes his left and sees Osamu bite his lip, eyeing his lap in submission even without being directed to. Keiji feels a hundred times worse when the monarch meets his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Who?” She asks again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lord Atsumu did, ma’am.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Only highly sought after guests of the Miya mansion and family are allowed to drink tea in this room, do you understand?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But Gramma, if he’s marryin’ Atsumu wouldn’t he be family?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji snaps his head up to see Osamu’s lips in a tight line as he regards his grandmother, his fist on his lap is clenched tight—the skin over his knuckles turning ivory. The monarch scoffs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He will never be family. He is nothing but a pet. Japan shall sink before I will ever consider some feeble farmhand to be part of the Miya household.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Gramma!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji knows. He knows that he has no base to feel this hurt. This spine-aching resentment inside his chest that boils too hot for his control. He has no right to let his eyes burn, no right to look away and feel rage. And, most of all, he has no right to cry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji bites the inside of his cheek until he feels the physical pain engulf all other pains, ebbing his worries of tears away as the Miyas engage in a heated argument. Keiji doesn’t lift his head, knows where he’s not wanted and sits quietly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Osamu, you must be re-enrolled into schooling if you think that this is passable. Even for your brother.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“By all laws, if they are to be wedded, gramma, he will be family.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not in a million years will I ever curse my bloodline with such impurity!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu goes to move in on her again when Atsumu finally lifts off his whisk and hurls it, the bamboo hitting the walls with a resonating crack. The monarch’s sharp gasp pierces his ears before she screeches. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Miya Atsumu! You better pick that up right now, young man! This is no behaviour of an heir like yourself!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you think me an heir, then treat me like one, will you? Akaashi </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> my intended. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> be married to me. No matter how marred our name may be, I am the true Miya heir and what I say goes!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am still the monarch, you insolent child!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their shouts warble into an incongruous motley. Keiji forces his eyes shut and fixates on his shaky breathing… in… out…in…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You took a joke too far, child!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes sting and he wants to so badly push his hands against them but they lie frigid on his lap, like stones by the harbour. The breath he inhales gets caught in his throat and he’s seconds away from hyperventilating when he feels a hand grab his shoulder and force him to turn. Keiji’s eyes fly open. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, let’s get out of here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu’s grey eyes are steady and firm on him. Keiji forces himself to concentrate on the way the man’s lashes flutter when he blinks, counting the individual lashes (eleven, twelve, thirty-two) until his hearing returns. Atsumu and the monarch are yelling at the top of their voices and Osamu is only looking at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji takes in a shaky breath and nods. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu doesn’t wait for another second, grabs his arms and lifts him before he’s ushering Keiji out and away from the teahouse. There’s an uproar behind them, but when Keiji turns to look, Osamu’s broad chest is blocking his view and the man’s thick arms are pushing him along.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on now,” he says under his breath, hurrying Keiji along and only stopping once they were around the mansion before the gatehouse. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t realise the breath he’s holding until he takes in a gulp of fresh air. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The tears lining his eyes are wet but stubborn, they hold onto his lash line well enough but he knows he wouldn’t last long.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He faces Osamu, whose thick brows are centred by the bridge of his nose, and who is reaching out to him but Keiji finds himself stepping back, closing his arms around himself and letting out a tremulous exhale. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think… I should head home. Goodnight, Lord Osamu.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu parts his lips but remains silent, moving only to retract his arms to his side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji does one deep bow and turns around, hastily walking out of the gatehouse and towards town before breaking into a sprint. He’s well past the intersection by the market when he registers the wet trails down his cheeks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He trudges slowly, the tears are dried by the time the market stalls recede into paddy fields and croplands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s an unbearable weight on his chest that slugs him even slower, the balls of his feet are surely inflamed, he limps more than he walks home. His tucked sash is now untied and hanging loosely around his waist and the outerwear of his kimono flaps aimlessly as the night wind blows by. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji sighs for the umpteenth time that night and wonders how he might actually survive this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He rubs at his eyes, hissing lowly at his swollen eyes, and attempts to focus into the distance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, far from most of the rowdy civilisation where the marketplace is native, his surroundings are basked in the dark. The only sources of light coming from distant farmhouses and the moon in the sky. Keiji huffs and his slippers clack on until his eyes zero-in onto a very familiar figure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There, only down the road by a farmhouse, is his Issei. Keiji squints his eyes and tries to inch closer without peeping a noise, stepping softly on the gravel. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei’s back is turned to him as the man himself faces the house. His head would bob in a nod every so often which could only ever mean one thing: he is talking to someone. Keiji’s eyes flit back to the house behind them—this kooky thing that hasn’t really been filled in until spring when a new family migrated up from the South in search of a place and their father had allowed them to stay as long as they paid rent and taxes like any good farmer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji can only scoff. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It seems odd now that Issei, the family keeper, had actually found someone to talk to other than his brothers. Keiji mentally slaps himself—what a harsh way to word it. But it was true. For all the affection he has for his brother, Issei is rarely ever found outside of their farm. He is simply too busy. He makes use of his brothers whenever he needs someone from the market and prefers staying back to “guard the fort.” Keiji bites his bottom lip when Issei throws his head back in a laugh and decides to step in. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Issei?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In a second, his brother turns around. “Keiji,” Issei begins, “What’re you doing here?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji furrows his brows and starts walking towards him. Issei’s sheepish smile is still on his face but his eyes are looking anywhere but him. Keiji purses his lips until he sees it—the person hidden behind Issei’s massive stature. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A young lady, probably around his own age if her sparkling eyes and jovial face was any indication. She’s a foot shorter than Issei, coming to Keiji’s shoulder at best. Her hair reminds him of soot, but her smile is blinding.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good evening,” she greets with a bow. Keiji is so taken aback it takes him a second to regain his composure before he bows right back. The girl grins at his stuttered greeting and flits her gaze at his brother before settling back on him. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Kameda Yukie. My folks moved in a few weeks ago.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, right. Yes. I remember.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles, “Your brother has been a great help since then. He’s been helping around the farm when my father isn’t around. It’s only me and my older sister, you see.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I see,” Keiji agrees with great hesitance. He has never seen this lady nor has Issei ever mentioned her to him. To be fair, Keiji hasn’t really been around at home enough to notice. The list of jobs he haphazardly picks up to carry his weight around the house surprisingly takes a fair bit of his mind. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it’s getting quite late. We should head home. Thank you for your hospitality, Yukie-San.” At Issei’s bow, Keiji scrunches his nose and marginally tilts his head when a strong arm comes up and grabs his neck down. He only lets himself up when Issei’s calloused hand wasn’t anywhere near his neck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei is grinning at Yukie when he straightens himself. Keiji rubs his palm against the nape of his neck and says, “Good night.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, good night. Please do come again, you are a good society.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Issei smiles at her while Keiji does his best to nod, only there to follow Issei’s steps—he has his fair share of childhood memories of unsolicited bath dunking because he went against Issei’s lead. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She seems nice,” Keiji comments once they’re out of earshot and the Kameda farmhouse is but a glowing dot in the distance. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei clicks his tongue and huffs. “I hate it when you get sarcastic.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not, I genuinely thought she was lovely. Just confused how you two became friends, that’s all.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Father asked me to help them move in and I met her there… we sort of started talking. It gets lonely at the farm when you three knuckleheads aren’t around,” he mutters softly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The cicadas are croaking away in a chorus long after the sky is benightThe usual minute echoes is coming from the residents around, but the night is mostly quiet. Keiji feels the sharp stab of the confession between his ribs. He clears his throat before he answers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve got ma.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but I can’t boss ma around.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji laughs and feels more than he hears his wheeze. He rubs at his eyes and turns to look at Issei. “You like her?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei doesn’t share much, always the greediest of the bunch. He’s staring into the distance with a gentle smile on his face, his hands are tucked behind him, bouncing with every footfall. His brother glances at him and hums. “How was the tea ceremony with the landlords?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Awful,” confesses Keiji. He winces at the memory and rubs at the soreness by his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That bad, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji kicks lamely at the dirt beneath them, scuffing his slippers and only stops at Issei’s tutting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop that, it’ll take forever to clean. Now, answer.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The monarch kept mocking me,” Keiji mumbles. He can see the peaks of their roof now, but there is still a fair stretch to go before they could even see their croplands. “Gods, Issei, it was horrible. I felt like I was being skinned alive.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Like tuna?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop!” Keiji scoffs with bewilderment. Issei only grins. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, okay,” he says in surrender, placing both his hands in the air before he ropes one around Keiji’s shoulder and pulls him into his side. “That wrench knows nothing, you hear me? You can always get out of this. Hajime and I can fix it, we can.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji leans into Issei, his warmth a welcome sensation. “Yes, but I’d be a coward.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, there’s no such thing. Stop calling yourself that, Kei. You’re brilliant. Just… know your limits. I know you want to go around and play hero and be everyone’s saving grace but, please, don’t push yourself. Okay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji doesn’t reply. Leans a little further into Issei’s side and lets the cicada sing them a song.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did he have a limit? For as long as Keiji has been made aware, limits are there to stop things. Limits are named the way they are because they can block you from achieving what you mean to achieve. Right? In any case, Keiji knows he can never back down now with or without limits. While he may be poor in lordliness, he still has a conservative bout of pride. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The monarch’s words ring his head like a siren and he closes his eyes shut, tries to ground himself to the sound of gravel crackling beneath his feet and the feel of Issei’s side pressing against him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You okay?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji hums and lets his eyes open. They’re crossing the path to walk up, hearing the way his sandals move from the dusty dirt and onto the soft, plush grass of their garden. He toes his sandals off, latches off Issei and hooks his finger under its sash to neaten it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re home,” he hears Tobio announce inside. There’s a silence before he hears the dull thudding of feet against floorboards and then the doors are sliding open and Hajime’s standing over the two of them with a grin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Welcome home, you hungry? There’s porridge on the stove and some pigeons I caught.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Barbaric,” Issei grunts as he steps onto the porch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kesmiles at Hajimemile. “I’d love to. I love your cooking.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The way Hajime beams at him is enough to reassure the turbulence in his head. He enters home with Issei’s idly chatting Hajime and gravitates towards the kitchen where he found Tobio sprawled on the far end of the floor near the windows, a scroll opened in front of him and his ink-covered fingers flying across the surface like a bee. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His mother is stationed at the hob, stirring away at a pot that Hajime had left to greet them. Keiji slumps against her and he hears her melodic laugh, her wrinkled arm coming up to rub his. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Welcome home, darling. How was the ceremony?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Keiji feels it instantaneously. Limits? He supposes he’ll have them, everybody does when they’re old enough to acknowledge faults and errors. For everything except for his family, he will. But for his people… for his mother’s laugh, for Tobin’s paintings, for Hajime’s grin, for Issei’s reassurance, he will do anything. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hugs his mother tighter and she continues to laugh, calls him a big child, but he doesn’t mind it. Feels himself lulled into a calmness that doesn’t exist anywhere other than here, within these four walls and people. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After dinner, their mother insists they make rice cakes for the Autumnal equinox. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But that’s weeks from now,” Tobio states, brows drew in vexation. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their mother dismisses his complaint with a wave of her arm, sending him away with a stack of dirty bowls to wash. “Yes, but I bet you’ll all be busy with the festivities when the festival starts, right? I know you. Hurry now. Issei, get the rice flour and bean paste, will you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am,” he complies easily with a salute, getting up from his haunches to go to the kitchen, steering a still perplexed Tobio in front of him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime lets a shout out from where he’s washing up the pots and pans. Keiji waits to hear Issei’s tell-tale chortle and smiles to himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How are you today, my dear?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji brings his gaze to her, hands still brushing away at the crumbs of food on the mat. His mother regards him with a delicate smile, there are faint lines at the corners of her eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m alright.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t lie to me, I saw the way you walked in with your brother.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji exhales carefully and lets out a short laugh. “I’ve been better,” he confesses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother’s brows droop in worry and she reaches out to pat his thigh. He squeezes the hand that lands on his lap and asks, “And how are you doing?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When his mother replies, it’s a mere second before his brothers return. She takes his hand in hers and clicks her tongue, a ghost of a smile on her lips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll have to take care of your brothers. And let them take care of you,” she mumbles. “It is so hard to live alone, Keiji. Promise me you’ll always be with them.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji’s mouth flies open when Issei crows his arrival. The candour in his mother’s face slips away and the grin on her face is skin-tight. Keiji wants to wash it off. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Here’s the flour and…the bean paste!” Issei props down across them, setting the clay basin down with the clay mug of bean paste and water. Tobio is gnawing on a slice of persimmon, hands glistening with its orange juice. Hajime is the last to enter, flinging his wet hands in the air and beaming at their mother’s shrieking. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji watches it all, fixating on his mother and the few sentences she mutters to him in secret. He imagines what his brothers would reply, what they would say and comes short. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’re in front of him, exchanging banter and moulding rice flour with sticky fingers. Hajime makes a show of punching the basin of flour and water mixture, the tank he’s wearing doing wonders for his flexing biceps. Issei huffs and calls to change, wanting to bask in the limelight. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio is still chewing on a persimmon and he slides up next to Keiji. He pats the boy’s sleek hair and feels ripped away from the present reality and onto a certain past—one where Tobio’s soft neonatal head is pressed against his childish palm as he and his brothers are rushed out of their parents' bedroom at their father’s instance and the midwife’s urgent instructions. The clamouring and chaos as multiple healers try to stop their mother’s bleeding. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Kei! Kei, oi!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji blinks when he feels a rough pinch at his side. He jolts awake and meets Tobio’s unashamed face and sticky fingers still pinching his side. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ack! Quit that,” Keiji whimpers and rips Tobio’s wrist from his side.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio retracts his arm and shrugs. “They were calling you. You weren’t listening.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji rolls his eyes and lets his gaze land on his family, Issei’s grin is simmering to a frown and Hajime’s (always, always) worried eyebrows. Then, his mother’s straight lips. She watches him, something deep and somber in her ebony irises. She nods smiles at him a smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s your favourite part,” she says gently, motioning to the basin of smooth dough and pot of bean paste, “you always know how to make them perfect.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji regards the equipage in front of him, one quick look at his mother before he pinches off a handful of dough, smoothing it out into a tiny ball and squashing it into a flat circle before he scoops out a spoonful of bean paste and dumping it dead centre. He twirls it in his hand, tucking the filling inside the rice cake’s skin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not perfect. Just precise,” he says easily. Pretends he doesn’t see the sag of relief in Issei’s shoulders or the straightening of Hajime’s brows. “Right, Tobio?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio licks his fingers clean, humming in agreement before he moves forward to pinch off the dough when Issei’s thick arm grabs his small wrists. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei groans when he feels the persimmon slick slide against his palm. “Ew, really? Go wash your hands, grubby boy.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio, miffed, turns his nose away and swiftly stands up to go to the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei shakes his head before he faces the family. And scoffs, “Seriously, no awareness of food hygiene. Don’t ever come to this eatery again!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji, surprising no one but himself, is the first to crack up. His mother follows suit just a beat before the brothers join in their chorus.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Tobio returns, he pouts the entire night as they make three batches of rice cakes, finishing only when the crescent moon is floating in the sky and the cicada’s choir diminish to a whisper.     </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Ramen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He lets himself recuperate throughout the weekend. His mother and Tobio invite him to the shrine on Sunday and he begrudgingly helps Hajime and Issei with farmwork in the afternoon. The Autumnal harvest is always the biggest of the year and, by far, the most exhausting. Keiji’s calves and biceps ache and throb even as he arrives at the Miya mansion the following Monday. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t tell his mother what happened. Aside from Issei, who Keiji is sure has figured it out, no one in his family understood the gravity of the tea ceremony three days ago. The remnants of the rice cakes they made for the Autumnal equinox his mother fed him for breakfast, the lasting sweetness of red bean paste and the memory in them fuel his resolve. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can so he will. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji straightens his shoulders and inhales the late September air, a crisp and dewy sensation. He bows his head at the guards and waits for them to push the gates apart. He clutches his fist at his side when he sees the house come to view and steps forward. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The first person he sees relieves him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I convince you?” Osamu tries feebly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And, because Keiji’s entire vocabulary dried in his mouth, he nods. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The young lord is back in his daily grey kimono. It clips perfectly on his shoulders and waistline. There’s an impending doom looming over his head and he tears his eyes away from the sash wrapped neatly in front of Osamu’s abdomen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He is much shorter than you..”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji can’t help but sputter out a laugh. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Think about it. They’ll think </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s the married farmhand if anythin’.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop,” Keiji stammers in between a chuckle. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ya deserve way better, ‘Kaashi.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji’s wiping his eyes, the sinews that line his stomach contracting with the way he’s keeling. He lets a sigh past his lips and smiles. “What’s the real reason?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu’s grey eyes widen fractionally, he looks like Keiji slapped him. But it goes as quick as it came and the young lord straightens his face before clearing his throat. His silver eyes are dulled by a margin and Keiji steels himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re never gonna have peace,” he says, “everywhere ya go, you’re gonna be subject to speculation and violence. The world…they’re not kind to people like u—you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Me?” Keiji tilts his head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Men into men.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji stiffens and sees Osamu’s abortive expression and wants him to stay there. He nods as a placeholder and scrambles for an answer, anything to make the young lord stay. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am aware,” Keiji assures, sees Osamu’s ears perk up and continues, “that there’s nothing safe for me. But there hasn’t been. Aside from my family, I can’t think of a single haven. And I’ll do anything to protect that. Even if it means that I won’t be safe for a long while.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu doesn’t reply. Little birds are coming to land on the ledge of the piece of roof they’re under, golden and flighty wagtails chirp from above and Keiji squints to look at them. All around them is evidence of Autumn. The trees, which act like guardian giants just before the gatehouse, have shed most if not all of its tawny foliage. They are nowhere to be seen, of course, the works of the groundsmen are meticulous and right. Keiji shivers a little when a breeze blows past them and freezes, for a while, when he sees the way Osamu’s fringe licks up with the wind. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not…he’s not doing this for ya,” Osamu mutters into the silence.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I gathered.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you haven’t,” Osamu rebuts quickly, “you don’t know the slightest thing about my brother, ‘Kaashi. And I don’t wanna mean it in a bad way, I’m just trying to say—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Something you shouldn’t?” Keiji finishes for him. Osamu nods fervently and Keiji tries to not feel endeared and fails.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji crosses his arms across his chest and sighs, “Well. You’ve failed again this time, Osamu-san. I believe you are now indebted to me by one poem.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sucks,” Osamu huffs with no real heat. He brings two fingers up to his chin and strokes his invisible scholarly beard. Keiji tries his hardest to not laugh and mellows it down to a simper. “Lemme think… ah… here’s one. A lightning flash, between the forest trees, I have seen water.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji brings his hands together in a mock uproar, “Astounding, astounding!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all week.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That was very pretty,” Keiji admits and pictures the refraction of light against water, the iridescence born out of perfectly aligned atoms. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu hums and shifts his gaze to the farmhand. “Yes, I suppose it was. Say, ‘Kaashi, are ya hungry? Let’s go out and grab something.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I have lessons,” Keiji reminds him, slightly alarmed at the sudden burst of enthusiasm. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu clicks his tongue and waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll take care of it. Whaddya say?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji has never eaten in a noble’s eatery in his life. For several reasons but the main being his actual class, of course. So when Osamu drags him around the noble’s community lined with lavish eateries, the bile in his guts waits impatiently and his anxiety skyrockets. It calms only when Osamu and he breaches that area of the village and step foot at the commonplace. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The market is alive and bustling, screaming merchants all down the road as they try to pull in middle-aged mothers and servants to their stalls. There’s a wave of heat around these parts, despite the chilly air, and Keiji instantly feels more at home. Grounded. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That looks nice,” Osamu comments while pointing at a ramen stall. It’s cramped between a fishery and a flora stall. Even from this far, Keiji can see the pack of fruit flies hanging around the former. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji eyes his companion. “Are you sure?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Course. I’m always up for good food. Tsumu’s a different story.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you say so, my liege.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I do say so,” Osamu singsongs. “Hurry, I’m starving.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They walk to the stall in stride. Keiji makes the move to secure their seats and goes as far as to order for both of them until Osamu puts a hand up to stop him and speaks for himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know my food,” he claims.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Like most places in the market, their food doesn’t take long. The two of them order miso-based ramen and they look absolutely divine. The noodles are thick and drown in the broth while the bowl is decorated with rectangular bite-sized bamboo shoots, ivory bean sprouts, boiled spinach, and a boiled egg that has been halved, and a slab of finely sliced pork meat. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji and Osamu clap their hands together, bowing in tandem as they choir, “Thank you for the food,” before digging into their bowls.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu is an animated eater, Keiji discovers. He gives a running commentary of the way the dish’s taste burst in his mouth, stands to ask the cook how he prepared the broth, and even (at one point) holds his head in his hands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it that good?” Keiji inquires with an amused grin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu nods quickly, rising from his hands. “I love food. Though, I suppose the eggs and noodles could use a little work.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The stall’s owner is luckily too busy tending his other patrons to even notice Osamu’s ratings. Keiji takes a swig of the water in his cup and hums pleasantly at the cool sensation. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess your future wife has it easy. You’ll like anything she makes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I don’t plan on marrying.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji blinks and sets the cup down. “Really? Surely an attractive, eligible bachelor such as yourselves have wives lined at the ready.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Um. Not quite,” Osamu trails off. Keiji wills himself to sober up only on the discomfort on the young lord’s face. “Say, how’re yer brothers? Haven’t seen ‘em since that day.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji, always grateful for an exit, hums. “They’re alright. Our youngest is always sketching when he can. It gets a little messy sometimes,” Keiji explains, remembering the time Tobio left his pot of ink by their room’s door. There are stains by that spot now. “And Issei, he’s working very hard. You know, Autumn is the hardest season of the year for farmers.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I bet. Wait, are these lessons takin’ help away from ‘im since you’re here and not home?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, no. I’m a disaster at the farm. I hate farm work.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That so?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji nods mindlessly, looking down at the empty bowl in front of him. “Yeah. And there’s Hajime, the eldest. He’s also chasing his dreams. He wants to be a real samurai.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘What is he now?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A glorified servant,” Keiji grumbles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu huffs a laugh and turns on his stool to face Keiji. “Well, they sound nice. Why don’t you bring them over this weekend? Gramma’ll be off to the capital.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, we wouldn’t want to intrude.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yer not. Trust me. It gets a tad lonely in the mansion when it’s just me and Tsumu. Plus, your youngest, he’s a painter, right? He can come to see our paintings. And your samurai brother… Hajime? Yeah, I’m sure Atsumu’d love a sparring partner.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji bites his lip and wants to think it through but he couldn’t help but acknowledge the spark of joy simmering deep in his belly. He wants to let them see that his life wouldn’t be as bad as they pictured it to be, wants to show Tobio the mural of their village in that tearoom and have Hajime pride himself at sparring a lord. He can just feel Issei’s ecstasy at seeing the picturesque garden in the atrium of the mansion. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He scratches at his wrist and nods. “If we’re not a burden.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Never,” Osamu reassures with a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their return to the mansion is a pleasant stroll. Now that it is well into the late morning, most of the upper-collared civilians have left for work and are tucked away inside, leaving the roads to the mansion barren. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji and Osamu take their time down the path. Talking about poets Osamu has met during his year away and the cities he managed to visit. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Which was your favourite?” Keiji asks earnestly. He so wishes he could travel. He wants to know the many layers of literature in this country and all its foreign influences. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu mulls this thought over. “The capital is very enlightening, but I think Osaka is my favourite.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Talking with Osamu is rhythmic. He falls in sync with the young lord’s tempo with such ease, he forgets the reason they knew each other in the first place. And when he does remember, midway through an explanation of Tobio’s fixation with Hajime and not Issei, Keiji pushes it away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Outside his family, he’s never had anyone around the same age to confide in. He loves his mother and brothers dearly, but what he would give to have one simple friend. It just so happens that his landlord fits in with him comfortably. There is still a cautionary edge to their conversations, but Keiji enjoys them thoroughly even so. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The guards greet Osamu at the gatehouse with a deep bow and Osamu regards them passively as he turns to Keiji to continue his argument about which poetic movement he found most moving. Keiji lets him ramble, loves the insight into the world of the written word that is so harshly gate kept by the upper class. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Osamu! What are you doing with that farm boy?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The two men snap their heads at the harsh voice and find the Miya Monarch with the mansion’s head servant tending to her. The two boys halt their steps. Sweat trickles down his palm, Keiji tightens his fingers into fists preemptively and stretches them till his tendons are taut. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just got back from breakfast,” Osamu explains coolly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t have breakfast with a farm peasant,” the monarch spits out. Keiji watches silently as she shifts her fiery gaze on him. “And you! I thought I specifically told you to attend your housewifery lessons!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It was my fault, Gramma,” Osamu intercepts, “I told the tutors to leave because I had business with ‘im.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The monarch seethes but her balance goes wobbly with anger and the servant behind her rushes in to right the lady up, even Osamu comes quickly to grab at her arms. Keiji moves with no thoughts in his head, his mind—for once--is tranquil. It must’ve been the ramen, but there is a strength coursing through his veins that had been absent just a few days ago. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji kneels as he stands in front of the monarch and bows deeply.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For a while, all he hears is the chirping of little wagtails. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he rights himself, the Miyas are watching him carefully—the young lord with his mouth parted, and the monarch with a withering scowl. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I apologise for my misbehaviour last Friday, ma’am. And for this morning. I assure you, nothing of the sort will ever happen again,” Keiji says with his head bowed. “I should never disrespect your hospitality and mercy.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The monarch’s livid eyes fade to indifference. She sticks her nose up haughtily and agrees, “At the very least you know your place. But should you try me one more time, I will seize your home. Understood?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji doesn’t dare lift himself from the ground until he knows the monarch was far away. Osamu is seemingly the same. His eyes only grace Keiji once his grandmother is out of earshot. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why did you do that?” He asks. No malice, no judgement, just curiosity. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji smiles and feels the gesture wearing him rather than the opposite. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Because I have to.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And there’s nothing more to it. Keiji was a straightforward person. He has no more place in the world but to become Lord Atsumu’s pet husband so that his family can keep their home. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji sees the pitiful glance Osamu sends his way and feels nothing of it. He knows what it seems like, what it is pictured out to be, but he couldn’t dissociate that further from his truth. He doesn’t feel like he’s losing, not entirely. He’s fighting, still, even if it is the opposite of convention. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So Keiji stands. He dusts his ratty kimono down and bows to the young lord before bidding him a good day and walking towards the mansion and into his lessons. He takes them, these degrading artefacts of housewifery, and absorbs it all. Learns to write scripture and the art of cooking. Everything, he’ll take it. He gets to go home to his family and their farm at twilight. He gets to eat with them and bask in their warmth. He gets his mothers hugs and tender pet names and her cooking and her affection. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And if that’s not enough for him to exist, then what is?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Eucharist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is with great reluctant excitement that Keiji finds himself that Saturday morning and his brothers flanking him. None of them seems particularly invested in the idea (just yet, Keiji reassures himself) of breaking bread with their landlord, especially one whose sole job is to collect their debts, but one can always hope. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s so far,” Tobio grumbles as he slides his slippers on. Issei grunts in agreement, ruffling his hair as he walks past to get to his own slippers.</p><p> </p><p>Hajime claps his hands, waiting like the true leader he is by the patio. “It’ll be good exercise, come on.”</p><p> </p><p>Begrudgingly, Tobio steps down the stairs, eyes crossed and lips curled. Keiji grimaces and turns to his mother whose brows are dipping in worry as she stares at her youngest. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure you’re alright?” Keiji asks, more so to assure himself more than anything. He takes her hands in his, wrinkly with senescence and wisdom. “I can stay behind, it’s really okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, don’t. Please, you’ll just make me feel worse! Go, have fun with your brothers, okay? Be back before sundown.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you really sure?”</p><p> </p><p>His mother fixes him a look, slapping his wrist lightly before she pushes him away. “Go.”</p><p> </p><p>When Keiji eventually turns, all three of his brothers are waiting expectantly at the bottom of the stairs. They’re dressed exceptionally well for farm folk and Keiji feels the first twinge of uncertainty reverberate deep within. </p><p> </p><p>Hajime’s hair is tamed, or as tame as he could be, less spiky around the edges and his face is vacant of scruff. He’s proudly wearing his best hakama yet, Keiji knows because it was a gift their father gave him for his eighteenth birthday and Hajime had looked so happy he could cry, a polished black and white affair resembling highly of the Miya samurais. </p><p> </p><p>To Keiji’s knowledge, Issei has not once been interested in formalwear, thought it was too tight and stuffy. Keiji eyes the olive green kimono down to the matching slippers and thinks that Issei must’ve scavenged their father’s closet or Hajime had lent him a pair. He’s leaning against the newel, face passive. </p><p> </p><p>Their youngest seems to be in the foulest mood Keiji has ever seen him. His brows are stitched together in the centre and he’s sporting an equally ferocious scowl. His arms, where glimmering teal sleeves of his kimono drape, are crossed atop his chest. Him, too, rests his back against the post. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji bites his lip and moves to join them, calling one last goodbye to their mother before setting off.</p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>The Miya brothers are expecting them by the front entrance. Leisurely lounging on the ledge of their porch, their lean legs are stretched down the wooden steps, slippers dangling off their toes in very un-lordlike behaviour. </p><p> </p><p>Issei lets out a guttural hum, Hajime’s eyes have narrowed to slits, and Tobio tips his nose heavenwards.</p><p> </p><p>At the sight of them, their chatter ceases almost entirely. Osamu goes to stand, bowing his head ever so slightly at Keiji, who returns the sentiment in full. </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, there’s so many of you!” Atsumu chirps from behind his brother, bouncing down the steps until he’s off the porch. Dusting off his slippers, he nods at them in acknowledgement—a motion which the Akashi brothers all respond with a succinct, deep bow. “Welcome, ah, I don’t know any of your names aside for Keiji’s…”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji moves forwards but stops when Osamu steps down to meet his twin. He crosses his arms over his midriff, clean-cut in a lustrous ebony kimono only on par with the dress he wore to the tea ceremony. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu huffs light-heartedly. “It ain’t hard. You got the Tall One,” he nods towards Issei who cocks a brow in reply. His gaze shifts to Tobio’s short frame languidly. “The Baby and the Eyebrows,” he points out when he reaches Hajime. Their eldest doesn’t comment, holds his tongue like a true chided veteran but Tobio does his best to bristle. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji doesn’t realise the breath he’s holding until Osamu walks into his field of vision. This close, he catches a whiff of matcha and mint. Osamu’s grey eyes are clear and brilliant. He wants to say something, maybe a greeting but is cut off prematurely with Osamu’s final verdict. </p><p> </p><p>“And the Pretty One.”</p><p> </p><p>Beside him, Hajime lets out a gruff cough. Tobio’s glare is hard to miss, too, and all of it wanes in comparison to the murderous look passing Issei’s eyes. Keiji parts his lips just as Osamu gifts him a subtle grin before rejoining his brother a few feet away. </p><p> </p><p>Atsumu is positively fuming, he tucks one leg behind before shamelessly kicking his brother’s calf. Osamu yelps in surprise, the humane act somewhat hilarious now that Keiji doesn’t feel like his knees would buckle any second. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s my fiancee, jerk face!”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah—quit it, ya big baby! I was just sayin’!”</p><p> </p><p>“Then quit sayin’ it!”</p><p> </p><p>“Are they always like this?” Hajime’s deep voice filters starkly in his ear against Lord Atsumu’s screeching in the background.</p><p> </p><p>Keiji eyes the brothers in front of him before returning to his own. “Not always, no.”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re a handful,” Issei remarks. “But interesting.”</p><p> </p><p>Tobio glares sharply at him before settling his eyes on Keiji, watching his brother fixated on the twin lords before them. </p><p> </p><p>When Osamu huffs in defeat, dusting off his kimono from any sand particles Atsumu might’ve stained him with, Atsumu ceases his grappling and goes to stand by himself. </p><p> </p><p>“Shall we go in?” he offers, smiling. Behind him, Osamu attempts a similar sentiment but it’s a little crooked. </p><p> </p><p># </p><p> </p><p>Though Keiji has his fair share of loitering around the mansion—times when Osamu would seek for him and give him a whistling did he step foot into the heart of the house. </p><p> </p><p>Just like its outer facade, the insides of the mansion is grand. The oaken wood framing the walls and tables are sleek, evidence of its regular maintenance. The screens are a soft shade of fawn and ecru depending on their dividers, twinning with the tatami mats which are devoid of dust and debris. </p><p> </p><p>Tobio walks along with the house with great wariness, eyeing where his toes go before taking a step, never really straying far from either of his brothers. Hajime nods his head politely at each room and pinches Issei’s back when he lets out a yawn midway. </p><p> </p><p>It all turns when they finish the tour at the main living room. Atsumu claps his hands, signalling the end of their mini-excursion. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s about it really. I dunno why Osamu’d want to show you, but there ya go! Ack—ow! Let go of me!”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s the polite thing to do,” Osamu scolds him. The black-haired lord rolls his eyes at his twin, turning away to escape his death-glare. </p><p> </p><p>“Anyway, I heard one of you’s a samurai. That true?”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji perks up, gaze sliding from Atsumu to his twin. Osamu locks their eyes together, the ends of his lips turning up partially. Hajime clears his throat, hanging his head as he raises his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“That’d be me, sir.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, rather burly aren’t you?” jests Atsumu. Hajime remains quiet even at the acknowledgement. The young lord huffs and takes a stride towards him. “Wanna see our swords? Gramma got us these real classic ones for our birthday this year.”</p><p> </p><p>Hajime’s head could not snap quick enough. His eyes glint in surreal excitement before he nods curtly. Atsumu beams before he links his arms around Hajime’s great back, ushering him away from the room and out into the open expanse of the atrium where Keiji knows he’ll be taken to the barracks the Miya’s kept their artillery. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s an actual child.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji notes the amused fondness seeping into the remark and faces Issei with a tiny smile. “Let him be.”</p><p> </p><p>“Look at that, Tobio, your favourite brother left you for swords,” Issei muses. </p><p> </p><p>The small boy between them snarls at him and Keiji has to throw the elder a glare just in time for the other young lord to renounce his presence. </p><p> </p><p>“They’ll probably spar,” Osamu adds, waving dismissively at them, “not much fun, I promise. You’reTobio, right? I hear ya got a thing for paintings.”</p><p> </p><p>Tobio’s drawn brows ease, sloping back to their natural arches as his eyes rake the man in front of him. Keiji can relate to the time it takes for Tobio to reply, the twins are insanely separate despite their identical features. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m the best painter at school,” Tobio states, voice and gaze unwavering. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu grins slowly at him. “That so? Have you ever heard of Hasegawa Kuniaki?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji can’t help but snort at the deadpanned reply. </p><p> </p><p>Still, as patient as ever, Osamu tilts his head, shifting his weight as he crosses his arm. “That’s terrible, we gotta fix that right away. Hasegawa is the best painter in all of Japan right now.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not true,” Tobio claims petulantly. </p><p> </p><p>“Swear,” Osamu whispers, crossing his heart. “Hey, why don’t we go see some of his paintings now? We got a few of them ‘round the house.”</p><p> </p><p>Tobio turns his head at his brothers, eyes wide. </p><p> </p><p>Issei rolls his eyes but ruffles the boy’s black tresses. “Go ahead, brat. Don’t have too much fun.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a sparkle in his eyes when he hears Issei’s approval, moving to Keiji to seek for him and grins when he receives another green card. He jogs up to Osamu who catches him in a conversation easily, walking the boy out of the room and through a sliding door. </p><p> </p><p>Issei groans when they’re alone, stretching his arms up towards the ceiling before dropping them at his sides. “This kimono is killing me.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just for a few hours,” Keiji reminds him good-naturedly. He knows that Issei would rather stay home, hold down the fort and all that, but their mother had insisted for all four of her boys to accept the invite as a family. Even if that meant leaving her alone for a while. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Issei grumbles, stepping away to lean against the door frame before he throws a sly grin at Keiji’s way. “So, Pretty One, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji’s cheeks flush crimson. He tears his gaze away, focusing intently on the dentation between each tatami slide. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought you were marrying his brother, Kei.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then what was that about?”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji bites his lip, grunting before he faces his mischief-incarnate of a brother. “Lord Osamu is… a friend. He has been nothing but compassionate and a good host when I’m around.”</p><p> </p><p>“Was this his idea?” At Keiji’s silence, Issei hums, “I’ll take that as yes. Damn, Kei. You really sold yourself off to the wrong twin.”</p><p> </p><p>The bubble of laughter that escapes him is shrill and unexpected. Issei’s blunt words never fail to tickle him. Keiji keels over, wiping a finger under his eye before he grabs at Issei’s shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, what—where are we going?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ll see,” sings Keiji. </p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>Issei absolutely adores it. The gasp that leaves him the second Keiji instructs him to open his eyes is hilariously loud. A passing servant gives them the eye and the two boys giggle over it when she skirts away. </p><p> </p><p>“This is insane,” Issei gushes, dropping down into the atrial garden, mixing in with the perfectly curated bonsai trees and Koi pond. </p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t it? I have my lessons just down this way.”</p><p> </p><p>“Keiji,” Issei calls with an urgency, “I want a house like this one day.”</p><p> </p><p>“Now, you’re the one who’s insane,” grins Keiji. “They’ve got a herbal garden if you step around the pond…”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji doesn’t know how long the two of them stay there for, Issei blending in naturally with the greens and orange hues of the peaceful flowery in his emerald kimono, he fits well with this life.  The Koi swim happily in their pond, image blurry with the tender ripples of the water. </p><p> </p><p>“How did you even find this place? I thought you’d be trapped in some little hutch.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your imagination is astounding,” Keiji mutters to himself, slinging his feet over the wooden boards. “Lord Osamu eats his lunch here around the time I’m released for a break. He’ll hand me spares if he has enough.”</p><p> </p><p>Issei bends down to sniff at the flower beds. “You’re close to that Osamu guy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Lord,” Keiji corrects, eyes widening. </p><p> </p><p>Issei shakes his head, going to right himself up. Seemingly done with the zen garden, he makes his way over and pulls himself up onto the wooden boards to sit next to Keiji. A warm arm wraps around him and Keiji is instantly reminded of the night right after the tea ceremony, the comfort of a brother saving him from drowning in self-pity and shame. </p><p> </p><p>“Sure, but you’re <em> awfully </em>close to him.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji doesn’t comment on the way Issei dismisses him, chooses to tangle his fingers on his lap instead. “I suppose.”</p><p> </p><p>He expects a lecture, anticipates the showers of degrading words only to be soothed by two simple words. </p><p> </p><p>“Be careful,” mutters Issei.</p><p> </p><p>Keiji tries to reply but any sound he makes is drowned by the clashing of swords. He bends backwards, eyeing the end of the peristyle leading to the backyard of the mansion and sees a flicker of white and black. He taps Issei’s shoulder twice, silent still, and tucks his legs back in.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go watch them,” is all he can reply. </p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu is an impressive fighter, but when you’re raised with the hulk that is Hajime, his swings are a little weak in comparison, not that the art is lost on him entirely. Atsumu wields the swords as though it is an extension of his limb whereas Hajime uses it to pierce an entryway, to carve himself into a victory. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a close fight. The two men have sweat lining their slim faces as they drew haggard breaths quicker than their katanas. Issei is horrendously enthused and Keiji would be lying if he said he wasn’t. Hajime is the least graceful of the four of them, but behind the blade, he moves effortlessly with the strike. It is a wonder to even be able to look at him. </p><p> </p><p>They call it quits when neither Hajime nor Atsumu is willing to draw their weapons.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, ya geezers,” yawns Osamu from the far side of the porch. Keiji startles at his voice. “It’s a tie.”</p><p> </p><p>Reluctantly, they let the clashing blades fall to their sides, white clouds of smoke puffing past their lips as the two men give each other an appraising nod. </p><p> </p><p>“Yer brother’s one hell of a fighter,” Atsumu praises as they walk back. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu’s leading the group, chatting easily with the two older Akaashi brothers and taking the time to lend an ear to Tobio when he calls for it. A gentle warmness spreads across his chest. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji ducks his head. “Thank you. That is high praise, Lord Atsumu.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, please, Keiji! Don’t be so formal,” laughs the young lord, “Hajime’s a mighty warrior. I’m honoured that I was able to fight him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll relay your sentiments, I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed,” Keiji replies politely.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu sighs, raising both his arms to cup the back of his head. The earth beneath them is misty from morning dew, but still dry enough for them to skid past if they so wished. It’s a grey sky that looms over them that afternoon and it makes the twins’ skin even paler. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m really sorry about the tea ceremony, y’know. I just wanted you to see what Gramma’s like around us. And to taste the tea, course.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji’s eyes snap to the young lord. His hands have left the nape of his neck and are now crossing behind his back, bumping slightly with each step he takes. A soft frown mars his face. Keiji retracts his gaze and reverts them to his feet. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright. I know you didn’t mean to shame me.” Atsumu doesn’t reply, but he’s still keeping pace with Keiji and that should at least be a good thing. After a moment, Keiji adds, “Thank you for inviting us to your home and being such a generous host. My brothers had a lot of fun this afternoon.”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu’s dismissal is quick and earnest, almost sheepish when he says, “Please, ’s not like I had a say in it. It’s all Samu’s doin’. He sent a letter out to our distant uncle to get Gramma outta the house for the weekend.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji feels his breath catch as his vision zeroes in on the broad expanse of Lord Osamu’s back ahead of them. It shakes with the heaviness of his laughter as he claps one had on Issei’s shoulder. His brother, once wary, now has a grin on his face at the young lord. </p><p> </p><p>“Is that so?” Keiji asks, mouth dry. </p><p> </p><p>“Yep. Still, I gotta say thanks for coming’. The house gets real lonely sometimes.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji ponders what it must be like to be an heir-in-the-making, of the long hours imprisoned behind the sliding doors of classrooms. He knows that what he does is only a fraction of what Atsumu is subject to.</p><p> </p><p>The confusion that flashes in the young lord’s eyes when he sees Osamu arrive along Keiji to the ceremony is an unwanted memory, but Keiji preserves it. Tries to catalogue it onto the face Atsumu’s giving him now—those lax, droopy eyes and an easy-going smile that looks wearier than anything else the longer he stares. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll always be around now,” whispers Keiji, still staring into Atsumu’s gilded eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, but surely, Atsumu’s lips curl the tiniest bit upwards. “Yes, I guess you will. Come, let us catch the others.”</p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>To Osamu’s insistence, the six of them eat a very late lunch cooked by the mansion’s servants. </p><p> </p><p>“Heard you cooked,” Issei says as he devours his rice ball. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji tries to kick his ankles under the table and fails. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu grins from where he sits next to his brother. “Yes, but this was a rather big feast to prepare so I had some of the housemaids help out.” </p><p> </p><p>“But ain’t it nice?” Atsumu beams from across the table. He’s tightly gripping a rice ball in one hand and his bowl of miso in the other. “Our rice producer is the best, ain’t he?”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu rolls his eyes but agrees easily, “Yes, Kita’s rice does wonders for my onigiri.” </p><p> </p><p>The conversations flow easily since then. Tobio tells him about the massive painting of the village in the ceremonial house, the blues of his eyes gleaming with affection. Hajime, too, seems to be more at ease as he clinks his teacup with Atsumu while they chat away about sword-fighting techniques and the fineness a draw can be. The other lord is preoccupied with Issei, questioning him about various crops and seasons that would go well with a recipe he’s trying. </p><p> </p><p>After the table is tidied, rushing servants politely asking him if he is finished with his plate—this, Keiji struggles to get used to--the brothers vacate the dining room to the main living area where they had split off earlier. The four of them are silent, trying their hardest to decipher Atsumu’s enthusiastic rambles about a certain instrument when Keiji feels a tug at his wrist. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu, who was tailing the entire group, has two fingers around Keiji’s slim wrist. He nods once towards the door, away from the group, and lets Keiji follow him. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” the young lord whispers.</p><p> </p><p>Keiji bows slightly and hears Osamu’s sputtering complaints but decidedly ignores it. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Osamu.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah, not that big ‘a deal. Where’s your mother, by the way? Thought she’d tag along too.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh… she wasn’t feeling well this morning,” Keiji explains, eyes askance.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh! Yer free to go if ya need to, Keiji. Don’t feel like we’re holdin’ ya or somethin’. We can take care of your folks.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji’s eyes bulge out of their sockets, hands flying. “That would simply be too much.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah,” dismisses Osamu just as quickly, “it’ll be fine, but I know you won’t take that as an answer so… how ‘bout a bargain?”</p><p> </p><p>“What kind?” </p><p> </p><p>“Dance with me.” </p><p> </p><p>Keiji furrows his brows. “There’s no music.”</p><p> </p><p>“Give it a second,” Osamu replies. And just as the second end, a tinny tune starts filtering from the room they just left the rest of the party in. Keiji, in his surprise, steps aside to poke his head back inside. </p><p> </p><p>Atsumu is on the floor, knees folded into himself as he plucks at the koto with a grace Keiji had never seen in him before. There’s an elated curl on his lips and his brows are free and high. It is such a ridiculous sight, to see Atsumu—red-eyed and predatory at their first meeting—now bouncing around his Kato as Keiji’s brothers clap their hands in awe. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji giggles into his palm and turns around to face Osamu who waits for him with an outstretched hand, a faraway look in his eyes. Keiji slides his palm over him, suppressing the shudder that runs down his spine when their skin makes contact. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu draws him close, places a free hand on the cusp of Keiji’s shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>“Like this,” Osamu guides and drags the two of them one step backwards and forward. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji rests his free hand on the man’s waist and lets him be swayed to the music. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve never seen a dance like this before,” Keiji mutters into the space between them. “Is it Japanese?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, European,” Osamu replies, this time he makes them move two steps forward. </p><p> </p><p>There seems to be an insurmountable amount of space between their chests that if Keiji so much as inched closer, it would cause the pressure gradient between his lungs and air to combust. He daren’t overstep and keeps himself at a distance. And, to an extent, he feels that Osamu is too, carefully eyeing the gap with his silvery eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you… for all this,” Keiji starts as Atsumu begins to slow his place into a lulling tune. “Today was more than I could ever expect.”</p><p> </p><p>“Stop, you’re makin’ me blush.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji halts his steps, causing Osamu to nearly trip over his own feet. He’s not taking more of this, there’s no way. With an iron-will, Keiji slaps the two of his hands onto Osamu’s shoulders and stares him dead in the eye.</p><p> </p><p>“Lord Osamu, I wished you’d listen to me sometimes. This marriage was the bane of my existence but I was gifted with our friendship and that—that is more than I could ever hope to have. So, thank you,” Keiji says slowly, making sure to enunciate every single ounce of gratefulness in his lean body into his words. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu doesn’t say anything for a long while, Koto plucking craftily in the background as he stares blankly onto Keiji. As it always does, anxiety’s tendrils begin to creep up his legs, gripping harshly at his inner thighs. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu licks his lips and rubs his mouth before he speaks. “If I’m such a good friend, you’d listen to my advice, wouldn’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>“What advice?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not marrying’ my brother.”</p><p> </p><p>At this point, Keiji’s eyes roll on their own volition. It’s a hard habit to stop, he finds. He slips his hands back onto Osamu’s palm and the dip above his hip, swaying the pair to Atsumu’s sweet melody. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m being serious,” Osamu retaliates and Keiji is sure he imagines the cinching his waist tightening its grip. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji scoffs but there’s a smile dancing on his lips. “What is it today then?”</p><p> </p><p>The silence stretches between them like thread, tinny percussion glossing over it, not really casing Osamu’s shortened draws of breath or the flush of Keiji’s cheeks. It’s a long while before any of them speaks, but Osamu’s voice is strangely coarse in his ears when he does. </p><p> </p><p>“His laugh is annoying.”</p><p> </p><p>Caught entirely off guard, Keiji throws his head back as peals of laughter wash over him. He laughs and laughs, the sinewy planes of his stomach and sides throbbing with each shake. Too lost in his own amusement, he misses the slow simper that melts across the young lord’s lips. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright, alright,” Osamu drawls, “d’ya want yer poem now or later.”</p><p> </p><p>Still giggling, Keiji throws the palm clasping Osamu’s over his mouth to speak. “Now, thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“As water of a stream will meet, though barred by rocks, apart it falls in rash cascades, so we too, sweet, shall be together after all.”</p><p> </p><p>“Gah, a love poem, you should take me to more eateries after subjecting me to such trifling literature,” complains Keiji almost immediately. Osamu’s thick brows draw together. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t like love poems?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think love is fickle.”</p><p> </p><p>Just as he utters his thoughts, Keiji’s eyes widen inhumanely so as he tries to backtrack his previous statement. Osamu gives him a good-hearted laugh, pats him on the back and continues to sway. </p><p> </p><p>“I think you have not known the depth of love,” Osamu murmurs. Keiji inches away, but Osamu is right there after him, the preying glaze over his eyes clearing. “But I’ll take you out, there’s a commoner’s Autumn festival tomorrow night and I need a proficient companion who knows their way around.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji grins just as Atsumu’s koto piece fades to an end, “Consider it done.”</p><p> </p><p>When he rejoins with his brothers, the tension between them earlier that day has dissipated into the dusk and it took Keiji much coaxing to get the four of them on their feet and walking home. Only when they pass the market did he remember that Atsumu, Osamu’s own brother, is also another proficient companion who knew the town inside out. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Autumnal Equinox</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When the sun dips below the mountains, cream lanterns light one by one, blazing the path towards the citadel even in their little corner of the village. They flicker and sway in the late Autumn breeze that carries with it Keiji’s anticipation of the awaited evening. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s donning yet another navy kimono, hair slicked carefully to one side with water by anxious hands and watches the faraway croplands from inside. Issei ducks into the house, a rattan basket pressed to his waist. He brings a hand to wipe the trickle of sweat off the side of his face and points a finger at his brothers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Make sure you’re all back before it starts to fog,” he reminds them sternly. “I’m looking at you, Kei.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hajime scoffs but does nothing to retaliate, still fixed in his corner of the room where he’s preoccupied with styling Tobio’s fickle hair. The olive kimono he’s wearing drapes gracefully around his square shoulders, a far cry from his routine samurai gear. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji reassures the farmer, taking the basket of the harvest of the man and placing it on the floor next to them. “We won’t be gone for that long. Lord Osamu just wanted me to show him around the festival.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s weird,” Tobio mutters, “aren’t you marrying his brother?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji throws a nasty glare at the roundest curve of Tobio’s turned head and bites the insides of his cheeks. Lord Osamu hasn’t disclosed their plans to Keiji’s brothers yesterday nor has he claimed to the fib of only knowing Keiji when his own twin is perfectly well-versed in the ins and outs of their village—this festers apprehension so deep Keiji can feel it tickle the insides of his ribs, but it also kindles a small flame of excitement. The last time Keiji visited the festival and looked forward to it was long before Tobio could speak. He won’t let anything ruin his night with a friend. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. It’s simply a cordial gesture, Tobio. Really, Lord Osamu is a dear friend of mine.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dear,” Issei mutters but doesn’t continue. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! You boys look so lovely! Do you have enough coins? Tobio, go fetch my purse.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We have plenty,” Hajime intervenes just as Tobio rises, “We’ll be fine, Ma. How’s the leg?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their mother smiles warmly, she’s already in her sleep dress. “Better than ever! You better get going if you want the best prizes, Tobio.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tobio, in true Tobio fashion, replies with a short huff as if to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they’re</span>
  <em>
    <span> the ones taking so long. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji approaches her, collecting her thin hands into his calloused ones. “Are you sure you’ll be fine? I can stay. Lord Osamu would understand.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The dramatics!” Their mother laughs and cups Keiji’s hands in return, “Don’t worry, I’ll still be here when you come back. Plus, Issei is babysitting me. Go, enjoy your evening, my love.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Keiji doesn’t entirely let go until he hears Hajime’s rough drawl from the door beckoning him to come. She sends him one last grin and an accompanying wave before her small figure is drowned into the night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Festival is held along the marketplace. Wooden stalls line the roads and they glow even in the navy darkness. Small children to the oldest grandparents roam the streets in all colours, they blend into the merry redness of the stands and the hawker’s luring calls. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The three brothers are almost lost in the vast sea of people, some faces Keiji pinpoints as pub regulars while others are entirely missed on him. It doesn’t matter, there’s only one pair of steel grey eyes he’s searching for. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” he hears then feels the briefest tug on his wrist. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji pivots in place and his brothers’ curious heads turn in tandem. Osamu stands before them, a ruby-accented ivory fox mask lies on his face and fully obscures all but his grey eyes. The corners of his lips twitch, Keiji bows in greeting before he can make sense of it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good evening, Lord Osamu.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, sheesh! How many times have I gotta tell ya, ‘Kaashi? Just Osamu is fine!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji throws his brothers a look, Tobio returns him a side-eye. He fixes himself, clears his throat and raises his head. “I doubt that is highly appropriate.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Indulge me this once,” the young lord muses as he lifts his mask to grin at Keiji, “will you?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Like a ship pulling ashore on tidal waves, Osamu slices through him like a knife and he flows with little resistance to this stray. Hajime grips his shoulder and nods once, approval and a bone. Keiji laps it up greedily—doesn’t spare the two boys a look as the young lord embroils him into the ocean of villagers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu is a great shot and swordsman—amassing a handful of prizes in their short loop around the festival. Keiji isn’t so bad himself, he lugs a large sack of millet behind him, taking great care to not accidentally brush the dirt-stained bag against the sleek dress of his kimono. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Careful now,” Osamu says as Keiji aims. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes are reduced to slits, focusing solely on the target and the weight of the metallic feathery cork resting between his fingers. He shoots and misses. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu is there, quick as ever to squeeze his shoulder. “Next time,” he promises. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As their gaits begin to slow, Osamu pulls the two of them into a darkened alleyway cutting through the merchant men's residential area. Here, the gusts of dusken Autumn wind dull to a gentle blow against his sweat-glistened back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Quite the prize ya got there,” chuckles Osamu. He rests his trophies—three caramel candies, a bamboo toy sword, and a caged frog—on the ground against the hut he was leaning on.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji lets his millet sac drop, it sends a pillow of sandy smoke around their ankles. The two men huff, waving their arms around to diffuse the haze and grinning when their air clears. Keiji eyes the millet sack, his distaste only somewhat present. “Might as well win something usable.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess you’re right.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The young lord’s eyes flit down to his hands, he stretches them—long, spiny digits paling under the crescent moonlight. From here, the marketplace uproar is tawdry and muted. He doesn’t mind it.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ya know,” Osamu starts, lowering his hands, “you’re not as rigid as ya act.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not sure I’m following.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re always tellin’ me what’s appropriate and what’s not… like a proper advisor sometimes. But you’re human, too. Heard ya cuss out that poor old lady’s bucket cause of your poor aim.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It was rigged!” yelps Keiji. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu’s laugh is deep and warm. It tickles the shadow of his skin. Keiji scratches at the nape of his neck, it’s damp. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, sure,” drawls Osamu, voice laden with merriment, “what was it you said again? Did it began with fu—” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, stop,” Keiji groans and buries his face into his hands. Osamu’s laughter rings in his ear, it’s both pleasant and obtrusive, clinging onto him like a deadweight. Keiji forces his eyes shut and tries to reset, this isn’t how he’s supposed to act around a nobleman. Certainly not one who he is indebted to. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu’s palm is a calming heat on his back. He pats Keiji twice. “I like it. When you’re not like that, I mean. Makes ya feel real.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am real.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Keiji lifts the pressure of his palm from his eyes, floaters explode like fireworks in his vision. It takes him a second but Osamu waits. A gentle smile graces his face and Keiji tries to return it but knows all he can manage is a shaky grin. The young lord doesn’t point it out, instead basks in the sentiment and beams even wider. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There ya go,” he assures, “look at you, all slump and no spine. Don’t growl at me now, ‘Kaashi. Didn’t I just say I liked you better like this?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What is there to like?” Keiji blurts before he could stop himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What isn’t there to like?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji feels his lips part but never registers them. It doesn’t matter, Osamu speaks loud enough for the both of them, prying this moment from quietude’s vice grip, from prancing around each other in the courtyards, below tables, and behind walls. Salvation. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Osamu says, rueful. “I know and yet…” Osamu’s eyes drift downwards, hanging his head to hide. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The words are sticky in his throat, clogging Keiji’s airways and lungs. It’s a slow drown, but on the other side of this suffocation is the sweet relief he craves. A torrent of truth churns violently within him, rushing up like bile and burning his mouth. Keiji pushes himself forwards, closer and closer until he feels the blistering touch of Osamu’s skin against his fingers. Warmth against a chill. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a heavy hand on his chest, crawling to rest upon his right cheek. Osamu’s fingers lie pliantly below Keiji’s cheekbones, a perfect fit. When the raven-haired tilts into the touch, the young lord says nothing and drinks the sight as a man parched. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It stretches and stretches, this silence between them, but Keiji relishes its tenderness. Osamu is like a man stripped—he carries no titles and name to his body, simply the simmering heat beneath his skin that comes out as shallow pants between the gaps of his teeth and lips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’re chest to chest and Keiji can feel Osamu’s hipbone nudging his own. The young lord’s hand is perfectly still on his face, a smooth caress. They’re close enough that Keiji can feel Osamu’s breaths against his lips. He bumps their foreheads delicately and smiles at the earned huff of laughter from the young lord. It would be so easy like this, he thinks. Their lips brush against each other and a stuttering breath staggers out of him. Keiji can only imagine the scarlet flush on his cheeks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Kaashi,” Osamu murmurs like a prayer, “Keiji. Keiji. Keiji.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Another brush. Another shudder. “Osamu-san.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Keiji, I…” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Keiji!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The shrill scream yanks Keiji out of his reverie, sending him scattering a few steps away from the young lord who looks just as shocked as he feels. There’s another echo of his name followed by a panicked shout.  Alarm bells blare awake in his head and he scampers towards his brothers’ voices. Osamu is hot on his tail, their prizes abandoned. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sees Issei first, always the tallest, peering around the many heads that could be shielding him from his last brother. Keiji startles violently the second their eyes make contact and can see the exact moment the sea of people part for his family—Hajime and his brows stitched and scowling, Tobio with teary eyes and tight lips, and Issei with the thick sheen of sweat on his forehead. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” he can barely recognise his voice. “What happened? Is she okay?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Issei beelines to him and settles both hands on Keiji’s shoulders, steadying him. “She collapsed. She’s back in the house with the neighbours, we need to go now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sick roils in his stomach and he covers his mouth in an attempt to conceal it—nothing comes, he’s not surprised. He hasn’t eaten since the morning. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>More hands touch him, he doesn’t record any of it until he feels the familiar stroke of those soft fingers on the baseline of his neck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Keiji.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s an order. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tries his best to focus, but it’s hazy. He knows his breathing is falling short with each inhale. Osamu curses and cups the back of Keiji’s head, bumping their foreheads together. The minute pain weathers the storm in his mind momentarily, just enough for his vision to clear up and focus. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Go home, okay? I’ll fetch my brother and a healer. It’ll be okay. Be safe.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t remember nodding to the young lord’s order or the dash home, only the blind panic pumping through his veins like poison and the wild thundering of his heart. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>#</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The healer and the twin lords arrive on white steeds when the fog has just settled over the living plane. They’re ushered into the house, Issei leading the pack as he steers them into their mother’s room. She lies pale and sickly on her futon, arms listlessly by her side. The old man, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Inagaki Yoshie from the noble district</span>
  </em>
  <span>, sets to work immediately. He hovers his hands over her body, calculated presses to test her limits, and murmurs prognoses. The motion knocks one of her hands away and it rolls like a log. Nausea washes over Keiji anew and he scurries out, legs heavy even as he makes it to the porch and gulps down lungfuls of misty air. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how long he has been standing outside. His toes, bare to the night winds, are thick and numb. His spine is liquid and he almost lets himself meld with eventide. There are no thoughts in his head, every single last one is a doom scroll through his mind he discards the minute he sees her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji manages to haul his head over the porch and retch. More nothingness. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He feels more than he sees the man crouch down beside him. There’s a warm palm across the expanse of his back, rubbing slow circles into his creased kimono. They don’t settle and Keiji tracks the motion devotedly, lulls himself away from the panic. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t have to. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu’s black tresses stick to his forehead with evidence of travail. The young lord’s hand moves away from his back and circles Keiji’s shoulders before pulling him closer until Osamu’s shoulder meets Keiji’s left cheek. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s doing okay,” he tells Keiji in a mutter. Keiji doesn’t reply. The only thing holding him together is Osamu’s arm around his shoulder. “Inagaki says she’ll wake soon.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t worry </span>
  </em>
  <span>is there, ever-present between their silence, but there is no need. Keiji’s mind is a jumble of distress that no one can untangle aside from time. They sit in the stillness as the fog dances between the crevices separating their chilled bodies. Osamu’s head is pliant against the top of Keiji’s own, another weight anchoring him to this reality. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His mother hasn’t had something this severe for years. Things were looking up, Keiji was sure of it—they were all so sure of it. Hell, she even told him that she was feeling better that evening. Keiji should’ve known it was just a white lie to lessen their worry. He should’ve known. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He should’ve…. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji jolts when Osamu jerks away. His eyes ablaze, meteoric silver against nightfall, they strike Keiji and pin him down. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop what?” he makes out, rough and weary. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu isn’t having it. His frown deepens to a scowl. “Don’t play that game with me. I know your wallowing in blame. It wasn’t your fault, ya hear? It isn’t your fault.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But it is! I should’ve stayed home, I shouldn’t have listened to her.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The words are sharp and brutal but the unsaid tears at him, claws at his throat until Keiji swears he can gulp down his spite like trickling blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I shouldn’t have gone with you. You shouldn’t have asked me to come. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s your fault. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu doesn’t grant him a response, doesn’t bat his eye for a second.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s almost too fast when it happens. The arms snake around him, engulfing Keiji’s frosted figure into a tight embrace. He squirms, tries to push the man away but fails each attempt. Osamu is immovable, an unyielding wall around Keiji. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve got you,” he mumbles into Keiji’s ear. “I’m so sorry, Keiji.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The first tears to escape are icicles, frozen from the waterline and weighted by fear. They stream down Keiji’s cheeks and onto Osamu’s grey kimono. As he weeps, Osamu only holds him close. His chest, Keiji’s sanctuary. His cries are hushed, audible solely from the rough pants of breaths he’s struggling to pull in. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The fog dissipates into a light mist by the time his sobs diminish into tottered snivels. Keiji pulls away if only to rub the soreness from his eyes. It doesn’t work. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu’s fingers are frost on his face. Keiji lets himself be cradled, lets his arms fall freely to his sides. When the world stops shaking, he opens his eyes and sees silver. The young lord blinks at him, the most pitiful of smiles on his lips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Keiji, will you take my advice?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t help the snort that bubbles out of him. “What is it this time, Osamu-san?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t marry ‘Tsumu. He’s got awful hair.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji laughs but it’s dry and scratchy and it tears out of him. It pains his sides and eyes but elation rushes into the void he carved in himself hours ago for the briefest moment. His hand finds Osamu’s for purchase and the man entwines them to his side for warmth. Tranquillity drapes across them like silk, thin and soft. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he catches his breath, Keiji’s weak grin slows into a smile. His gaze falls on their fingers—sand and earth—before he tears himself away, clearing his throat. The question is supposed to be banter, a light jab if nothing else. A joke. It tastes like lead on his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you still trying?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A thousand speckles of passion, regret, and pain swirl in Osamu’s deep-set eyes. Keiji tries to pick them out one by one, but they pass as quickly as they come. His smile slips off his face when he feels Osamu’s fingers return to their spot earlier that evening, just below his cheekbones with his thumb lying flat across Keiji’s eye bag. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The pad of Osamu’s thumb gently brushes his benumbed skin before stepping away. The young lord parts his mouth to speak but his truth dies on his tongue when Atsumu’s large figure obscures the doorway. Osamu retracts his hand in a flash and shuffles away.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Atsumu</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Keiji’s mind supplies. His affianced, the lord he’s marrying.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji pinches his thigh just as Atsumu makes the trip down towards them. He grasps one of Keiji’s cold hands in his, squeezing ever so slightly and cracks a smile. Some part of him is grateful that he has no tears left because the genuineness in Atsumu’s eyes is enough to wash his regrets anew. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s awake,” gushes Atsumu, breathless yet clear. “She wants to see you, Keiji.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu pulls at his wrist, tugs him away from the conceals of shadows and into his candlelit home. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His brothers surround her and they leave a space on her right, just next to Tobio for him. Keiji falls to his place gracelessly, thudding as he crawls into his mother’s waiting arms. Her embrace is frail but Keiji’s grip steadies the both of them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He calls for her like a mantra, “Ma, ma, ma.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My baby,” she croons into his hair, stroking the nape of his neck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One by one, his brothers envelop them like petals of a flower. Hajime throws an arm around the two of them, followed by Issei who drags Tobio into the cuddle. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For the first time that evening, Keiji feels heat enter his body and he basks it in full. He doesn’t even register Osamu’s absence. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span># </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is past midnight and Keiji is still awake. He lies in the futon beside his mother. They are scattered around the room on the mats they dragged in once the lords and healer left. The walls soak up the nightshade and moonlight bounces off the window and onto the floors. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can hear Tobio’s soft exhale next to him, watches the way his chest rises and falls before turning around. Issei lies between them and the door, hand sprawling across his stomach as light trails of snores escape him. Hajime, who had been the most reluctant to slumber, takes his post on their mother’s left. His legs are strewn all over as he reshuffles, constantly moving even in sleep. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji rests his head on the futon, slips his hand under his mother’s blanket and clasps her hand in his, sighing in relief when he feels her squeeze his fingers in return. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Keiji,” his mother whispers into the air. She doesn’t wait for his reply to continue. She drawls, muted by weariness but pushing. “You have… to stay strong…alright?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes sting, blurring his vision as he grips her hand tighter. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His heart lodged in his throat renders him mute. She coughs weakly before muttering, “Good. Good… My white kimono brings good luck… you know? I folded it neatly for you…” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t say that. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope you can forgive me. You deserved…better.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He worries his vice grip on her fingers would crush her, but she returns the fervour if only slightly with the strength she has left and lets go. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>By the morning, there are tear stains on his futon and his mother is gone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They have the associate Village Elder aid them to move her into a crematorium. Tobio weeps into Hajime’s chest, clutching onto him like a newborn, as Hajime turns away to hide his tears. Issei chokes on a sob and covers his eyes as they watch her turn to ash. Keiji remains tearless even as they collect her remains and place them into the ceramic urn. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The village observes them in silence as the four boys walk home, heads hung and crestfallen. His face gives nothing away, not once does it crack even though he is holding all that he has left of his mother in a vase. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When they get home, Tobio wails. Hajime does his best to calm the boy down, restraining his flying fists even though his own eyes are red. Issei moves into their father’s study, slams the door open to receive a scroll of parchment, an inkpot, and a brush. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He needs to know,” is all he says before setting down in the living room and hurriedly brushing a message. Keiji thinks it resembles more of a chicken scratch than writing but leaves him be. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His feet take him to his mother’s room. The doors slide open easily, weightless without the burden of knowing death. Specks of dust filter around the air, alight by the ray of sun streaming into the otherwise cold room. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He manages five steps in before he’s crumbling to his knees, wretched sobbing peels out of him like screams. Three pairs of hands engulf him, huddling so close Keiji doesn’t know when his body ends and when his brothers’ start. Tobio’s cries in his ears are loud and piercing, but it doesn’t compare to the pained howls that claw their way out of Keiji. He’s trembling, the urn is long forgotten on the side, and they can’t contain him as he starts to scratch at the floorboards. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Kei,” laments Issei, his face is wet and tiresome. It doesn’t phase him, not when his heart is bleeding dry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keiji shakes his head, a fresh bout of tears trickling down his face. Hajime doesn’t meet any of their eyes, but his sniffles don’t go amiss. They take turns coughing and consoling each other from a panic fit, grieving the only way they know how. Together.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The four brothers huddle close, staying still even hours later, for warmth or safety no one was quite sure. Maybe if they held each other tight enough, they wouldn’t break any more. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. De facto</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Two weeks pass since their mother’s passing and the brothers cope. Issei works long hours on the farm, only coming to the house when called for dinner or breakfast. Keiji hardly sees him unless he’s out in the field, ploughing through the harvest. Tobio turns taciturn and morose. Days would go by before any of them would hear his voice, but none of them comments on it. They can’t fault him. Not when they are each struggling to manage themselves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime, always the leader, resigns from his samurai training at the dojo and takes up the full-time job of being the eldest and their caretaker. He’s up before anyone else in the house, steaming breakfast and serving it with a placid smile. In the afternoons, he dusts and takes care of the grounds around the house before the croplands. He’s wet with sweat by the time he’s back in the kitchen for dinner, boiling millet and frying fish. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are times he slips up and the three brothers look at each other in alarm when they hear the pots and pans clanging and the loud curses. But he composes himself away from them, comes to the living room to call them for a meal as if nothing happened and they all play along because that’s the best any of them can do for now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Keiji hasn’t visited the Miya mansion since. Neither of the twins has written to them or checked on them since that night. Keiji considers writing them a missive to excuse himself of his absences, a polite duty of his as the indebted, but he struggles to dent the parchment without running the ink he wrote with tears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Little words can so wholly describe the immense bitterness and deprecation dwelling in his chest, festering like parasitic viscera gnawing at him from the inside out. Some hours, it bites ferociously at him with charges and appointed faults of running away that night with someone else when he ought to be at home, caring for her and tending to her. Given the chance, he would have just prevented it all. In others, abhorrent torrents wash over him in waves, scrutinising one young lord and his untruthful persuasions which charmed Keiji and fools him all the same. Then the cycle continues. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He spends his days wondering if it’ll ever stop. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the end of the second week, a harsh rap of hooves greets them. A man, stockier in build in comparison to Hajime and no less tall than Issei, stumps his way out of a carriage with baskets of papers, clothes, and trinkets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei sprints towards the house, bouncing as he welcomes the man home. The elation is mutual. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Father,” breathes Issei into their hug. “You’re home.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That I am, my boy. That I am. Where is Hajime?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s in the kitchen. Shall I fetch him?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man smiles. It’s a little crooked and the overgrown moustache he nurses doesn’t frame it quite right. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei skips all the way to the kitchen and Keiji can make out their brief conversation even in the living room. Across the room from him sits Tobio, whose navy glance surveys their father briefly before returning to the scroll of parchment he is painting. The man doesn’t appear the least bit phased at his indifference. He huffs and shakes off his coat with an eye roll, one that instantly lights flames of ire within Keiji, before settling onto his third son. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why are you wearing that,” he states rather than asks. His tone is flat, devoid of any diversions one would expect of a father. Keiji hugs the white kimono closer to himself and feels the tiniest bit of vindication when his father visibly bristles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mother gave it to me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It is a wedding kimono for </span>
  <em>
    <span>women,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he seethes, “you are causing great ridicule onto yourself by prancing around like a girl. Go change.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji bites the insides of his cheeks but doesn’t budge. “I fail to see how this makes me a girl, </span>
  <em>
    <span>father</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’m a man in clothing, that is all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you get smart with me, boy. I know what you’ve been up to, you filthy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck—” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tobio flinches at the term and Keiji’s gaze flies over to him in worry before resettling on the brute hunching over him. The man continues to growl, stalking closer enough to cause him to stand in dismay. “Prowling around and selling yourself off to a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lord </span>
  </em>
  <span>of all things! Everyone from here until the higher lords in Tokyo has heard of the scandal. Oh, yes, you have dragged my name enough!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s backed into the wall, its spiny corner digging into his back and his father’s rage is contagious, it chokes him and takes all that is left from his dignity and lights it aflame. Tobio scrambles to his feet as trepidation settles in his eyes like ships on seas. Keiji forces himself to breathe, to remember that he is much bigger than back then that he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>protect </span>
  </em>
  <span>himself and fight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Father!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime bursts through the door and Issei’s beam dims to a frown as he takes in the situation. Keiji trapped, Tobio frozen, and their father preying on his own son. The man bears his fangs at them, even to Hajime and Issei who Keiji knows he treasures the most of his litter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How did you let this happen,” he berates his eldest son. “You…you were supposed to be the man of the house! You were supposed to make sure things remained orderly until my return, Hajime… You were—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The confusion fades into a rage. Bridled with deception and fright, Hajime snarls. “This was </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>fault. Keiji did that to cover your debt. What else do we have but our pride?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You could’ve sold the house! You should have let them seize the farm! Anything would be better than our soiled name!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The farm?” Issei says with a crack in his voice, it sounds like the snap of a string. Keiji winces. “How could you say that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their father—no, the man snarls, all fangs and slick, “No insult bears hilt to seeing my son claimed by another man like a mere dame.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Keiji supposes he sees it coming, it has been years dissolved into the shadows, veiled thinly by the shadows of his father’s masculinity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In his eyes, Keiji was always the most </span>
  <em>
    <span>feminine. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He would always spit the word out like an insult, spraying Keiji with condemnation—a shower none of his brothers has ever found themselves under. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Enough of this,” the man barks before he surges forwards far too hasty for anyone else but Keiji in the room to notice. It happens slowly but all at once. The man storms towards him, hand balled into a fist by his side as the other darts forward and catches grip on the kimono’s hem and pulls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tear resonates like a cry in the room before Keiji hears a scream exude from his hoarse throat. He lurches but the man, eyes wild with fury, jerks back in time to dodge his punches. Keiji was always quick on his feet, but he is blocked by a toned arm around his middle. He flails frantically, attempting to yank himself out of the hold but failing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let me go!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei’s mutter behind his ear is lost in the wrath that consumes him. He claws at his brother’s arm and Issei hisses when Keiji draws blood. He doesn’t tire himself just yet, scanning the room in quick shots to capture sight of his opponent and finds him shielded away by Hajime’s broad back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Again, he struggles until his knees buckle before wheezing, “Please, please, please, let me go.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t let you do that,” reasons Issei. It’s lost on him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why would you say that to him?” Hajime growls a couple of feet away from them. His hands are at his side but they shake savagely. “After all he’s done for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“All that </span>
  <em>
    <span>bitch </span>
  </em>
  <span>has done for me is ruin my reputation.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can you think of anyone other than yourself for one goddamn second! Keiji sacrificed himself because you couldn’t pay up to your misdeeds.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji can’t see him but he knows that the man is frenetic. He knows because even Hajime takes a few steps back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There is no greater </span>
  <em>
    <span>misdeed</span>
  </em>
  <span> than letting man lie with man.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The grip Issei has around him tightens and Keiji thinks he might start hyperventilating if they don’t leave. Hajime’s shadow, once stood tall and unflinching, recoils from the statement so brutally Keiji thought he would fall for a moment. On the far side of the room, Tobio’s lips are parted in shock as he watches his family unravel. Keiji wishes he could run over and hide him away. Tobio is too young. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Silence hangs heavy in the room, an uninvited guest looming around the crevices of their home until Hajime clears his throat and tips his head backwards. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What if,” he starts off waveringly then shuts his mouth to clear his throat again. His shoulders tremble as he tries to get the words out. “What if I told you that your firstborn son is in love with a man.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Time stops, suspending everyone with it in its eternal hellscape. No one speaks, they can't move. Keiji takes this moment to break free of Issei’s hold, who vocalises his protest weakly but he too stands up and joins Keiji by Hajime’s side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like this, all heroic images printed on his head of his older brother are carried away into the ocean like debris. In Hajime’s emerald eyes is nothing but contempt and they threaten to spill over if he so much as takes another breath. His brows are pulled viciously together to match the scowl on his lips. It’s all fury and malice, like a wolf about to pounce on its prey, but the wobble of his lips gives it away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their father clicks his tongue at him then shifts his gaze over to Keiji who deepens his glower. The man scoffs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then he is no son of mine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime doesn’t dignify him with a response other than a curt nod. He then disappears into the halls of their house and into his shared room. Issei tails after him to call him back but it soon changes from just his name to pleads. When he returns, Hajime has a sac over his shoulder and he is dressed to leave. The first tendrils of panic begin to seize Keiji, rooting him to the spot where he watches Hajime steps off the porch and walks away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Issei sprints after him, hands clawing at his shoulders as he tries to drag him back. “You can’t just leave us!” he outcries. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hajime is wordless as he pries Issei’s hands off him and continues to stroll away even after Issei crumples to the ground. Tobio whimpers, it’s the first noise to come out of his mouth all week and the teardrops he kept at bay are finally unmoored. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bitterness returns in full force but instead of gnashing its teeth at Keiji, it wails.  He can only hang his head as his father brushes past him to go to his study. He hears the slam of a door before Tobio’s weeping drowns it out. Keiji wants to collect him, to hold him up from breaking, but he doesn’t know if he’ll remain intact if he moves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No one speaks in the house after that. </span>
</p><p>
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</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Pictures on Water</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On the thirteenth of November, Keiji returns to the Miya mansion. Frost blankets the trees like rhinestones,  precious and sneering down at him from their high heights. It is as though every samurai within a thousand-kilometre radius has heard of his misfortunes and couldn’t help but draw their eyes on him as he arrives on foot that early morning. </p><p> </p><p>“Keiji!” </p><p> </p><p>Osamu is on him at once, all warm hands and vacillation. He hovers over him like the grey clouds that have yet to disappear since his mother’s passing. Keiji bites the insides of his cheeks as he bows in greeting. “Sir.”</p><p> </p><p>The formality is impertinent on the young lord who shifts his eyes to scrutinise, it takes everything in Keiji to not shudder. When Osamu takes a step towards him, Keiji stands his ground. </p><p> </p><p>“How are you? And you’re brothers?”</p><p> </p><p>And there was so much he could say, so many different paths he could take to answer him. As he raises his head to meet that familiar, grounding grace he knows that there is only one way he could go. For the first time in weeks, he welcomes the sight and memories of the man in front of him as freely as the air he breathes. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu extends a hand when he sees the twitch in Keiji’s lips and he takes it gratefully. </p><p> </p><p>They walk down the mansion in quietude, the heaviness of anticipation settling awkwardly on their shoulders as they shift that way and this. Their footfalls find them at the atrium and Keiji swears he could just catch a whiff of the rice balls Osamu had packed all those weeks ago, the very first time. </p><p> </p><p>“Sit, please,” invites Osamu kindly. Keiji is not one to disagree, he crosses his legs and takes a seat while Osamu mirrors him. “Talk to me, Keiji.”</p><p> </p><p>He starts the only way he knows how. “My brothers are alright, thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I…” What of him? What does he have to say without sputtering self-hate and loathing for the man beside him? How would he even begin to unload the mental fatigue he found himself plagued with for the past half-month? </p><p> </p><p>Osamu shifts his weight closer towards him, their fingers brush on the oaken floorboards like magnets. Keiji clears his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“My brother, Hajime, you remember,” he begins. At Osamu’s nod, he continues, “he ran away from home a couple of nights ago. We haven’t heard of him since.”</p><p> </p><p>“No...” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes and… our father, he’s back and his…dislike towards me have grown immensely due to the nuptial conditions I’ve placed myself in.”</p><p> </p><p>“At his fault,” protests Osamu. Keiji’s lip twitches to a ghost of a smile as he sighs. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I suppose.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am sorry, Keiji.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji crosses his arms across his midriff and sends the young lord a quizzical look. “What for, Osamu-san?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve been rained with vexations right after you’ve lost someone very dear to you.”</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t respond to that. Keiji zips his lips together, eyes downcast even as Osamu turns to face him. He only snaps his eyes up when he feels the man’s warm touch resting on his knee.</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Osamu mutters, “how difficult losing someone is. My parents, they were both gone before I even learned how to write. My mother at birth and my father was murdered before my eyes.”</p><p> </p><p>The gasp that rips out of him is carnal, dripping with disbelief and echoing with empathy. Osamu’s kind eyes find him, a small reassurance in the quiet and mutual hurt. It swathes around them like a bandage but their wounds bleed even through the mesh, overflowing onto the dark floors and slipping between its gaps to be reabsorbed by the ground beneath them. One day, they, too, shall return. </p><p> </p><p>He’s unsure of his words, but they free themselves anyway. “How did it happen?”</p><p> </p><p>Something flashes past those dimmed grey eyes and Osamu’s jaw tighten briefly.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to tell me if you wish not to,” Keiji adds hastily. Osamu silences him with a raised hand and a gentle shake of his head. </p><p> </p><p>“No, no… it’s about time someone else knows.” </p><p> </p><p>They were on their way home, tells the young lord. Osamu had hardly seen his seventh summer when they were ambushed in the darkest alleyway on their journey. His father had pushed him aside, hissing at him to run even through the shakiness in his voice he persists. Terrified and clueless, Osamu heeded his order—sprinting to the bushes his father’s fingers pointed to and hid. A herd of bandits, masked and katana swords were drawn, approach him.</p><p> </p><p>“They didn’t even speak…I heard the blade impale my father’s chest before I could even blink.” Osamu’s eyes wander through the scapes before them, never quite meeting Keiji’s. But it’s alright. He tells Keiji about the run home and the countless times he had to empty his stomach until he was as hollow as he felt before reaching the mansion and passing out in front of a servant. </p><p> </p><p>“You said,” starts Keiji when it becomes clear that Osamu’s words end then and there, “earlier that it was about time someone else knew about the <em>incident. </em>Are you saying that Lord Atsumu has no idea of it?”</p><p> </p><p>The man sighs, shaking his head. “As far as ‘Tsumu’s concerned, our father died from a heart attack.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not spare him the truth?”</p><p> </p><p>“It would break him. He idolised the man more than anyone else and if he were to know that our father was murdered the night before his birthday, it would ruin him,” the man states simply.</p><p> </p><p><em> It was your birthday, too</em>, Keiji wants to object. <em> He was your father, too.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Instead, he reaches over and traps Osamu’s hand under his fingers, smiling when the lord snaps his head upwards to meet his glance. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re a good brother.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Osamu’s eyes grow distant and his lips part. He looks so lost and Keiji wants nothing more but to reel him in, but he retracts his hand and watches with a pang as those grey eyes flit down and register his absence. The silence doesn’t last long, Osamu seems to snap out of his reverie with a boyish grin plastered on his face. It’s skewed and dim, but Keiji accepts it nonetheless. </p><p> </p><p>“That's a high compliment coming from you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You jest,” laughs Keiji.</p><p> </p><p>Osamu shakes his head. “No, I mean it. You are a wonderful brother and son. You would not be here if you were anything but. Accept it.”</p><p> </p><p>Reluctantly, Keiji curls his lips into a shallow smile. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Osamu-san.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t thank me for stating a fact,” dismisses Osamu, “have you had your breakfast? You did come here earlier than usual.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji shakes his head, following as Osamu rises to his feet. “I was hoping for a stroll. I ended up here no matter where I walk.”</p><p> </p><p>“Lucky me, then,” whispers Osamu as he passes Keiji with a wink. </p><p> </p><p>It is a second before he reminds himself he has to breathe. </p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>Osamu leads him to the kitchens where the servants are bustling as rays of morning seep through the blinds. It burns in comparison to the harsh winter settling outside and they work in riotous joy, slinging pans and raising trays of hot rice cakes. </p><p> </p><p>“On your left,” yells a housemaid as she passes the two men. She’s carrying pails of water as she rushes out of the kitchens, presumably to draw a bath for the other two landlords residing in the mansion. </p><p> </p><p>None of the workers bats an eye at their young master who chats to them amicably as he joins their workbench, pressing this and squeezing that onto a plate before he turns to serve Keiji an assortment of sweet cakes. </p><p> </p><p>“Are these for me?”</p><p> </p><p>The man nods, grinning. “Whichever you’d like.”</p><p> </p><p>They eat the cakes outside where the rambunctious hubbub of the cookhouse is muted but not missing. Osamu plucks one up and lists down the ingredients that go into each one, the secrets to their architecture and artistry while Keiji continues to pop one after the other and humming at their goodness. </p><p> </p><p>He ducks inside to hand the plate back to a maid, who eyes them with a knowing smile but stays quiet otherwise, then takes Keiji inside the mansion. </p><p> </p><p>“There is one part of the house you have yet to see.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really? I thought we’ve covered all I was here last, with my brothers.”</p><p> </p><p>“You would think,” Osamu hums as they turn left into a hall. It ends with a sliding door adorned with carved detailings of petals and vines. “We didn’t think it was necessary. Plus, there are some <em>top secret </em>files in here. We wouldn’t want just anyone to come in.”</p><p> </p><p>The man slides the door open and a gust of dust blows past their faces. Keiji’s mouth drops. </p><p> </p><p>“Osamu-san…this is beautiful.”</p><p> </p><p>The library is stocked with rows upon rows of wooden shelves, each one full to the brim with literature. </p><p> </p><p>“Go ahead and take a look.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu smiles, the palm of his hand coming to press on the divot of Keiji’s back. It’s not exactly his lower back, but if Osamu would so much as stretch his fingers it would come to the small of his back. His breath hitches in his throat as warmth blooms all over, prickling his skin with redness. He feels the gentlest of pushes against him and lets himself be swayed forwards, stepping into the heart of knowledge itself, entirely entranced by the display. </p><p> </p><p>“But what of my classes?” Keiji asks once his voice returns to him. </p><p> </p><p>The look Osamu gives him is anything but unkind. He gives Keiji a short, breathless laugh. “Don’t you fret over that, come, here. My favourite selection of poetries.”</p><p> </p><p>The early winter is hazy and restless outside, shaking the naked tree branches dry. There is a saying that goes about the relativity of time—how some instances modulate seconds to feel like liquid gold and others rush hours into breezy hails. All romantic nonsense, he knows, but entirely wants to believe. What would it feel like to run his fingers into the stream of time itself and feel its current course between his fingertips? To dive into its river and come out in the middle of an ocean, insignificant in the runic past of his life?</p><p> </p><p>Enclosed in that room, the two of them spin around each other as towers of literature flank their sides. Time, he finds, moves along with him—orbits around them, perfectly proportionate to the speediness of each page-flick—as a moon and as a young lord. </p><p> </p><p>The day passes them quietly as the first air of peace enters his lungs. They lift him to heights he has forsaken since that night. He is not so religious to believe that the celestial dwellers are swayed to clemency and swathing him in tresses of idyllic serenity. He doesn’t, but standing beside Osamu—the lord’s elbow’s brushing his when he goes to turn a page—feels like forgiveness. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you reading?”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji turns and Osamu’s grey eyes are already on him. “Oh, this? I’m not quite sure. I found it over there.”</p><p> </p><p>“There?”</p><p> </p><p><em> There </em>is a secluded shelf on the opposite side of the room, on a tangent to the doorframe heading East. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Keiji repeats, eyebrows slowly dawning to a cross, “Was I not meant to—I deeply apologise if I’ve—”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu dismisses him with a wave. “No, it’s…it’s quite alright. I’ve just never ventured there personally. What have you found?”</p><p> </p><p>“Enrichment,” he starts, uncertain until he meets Osamu’s gaze. “The writer is something else. Really—capturing the nature they see and caging them in mere words. It’s the best thing I’ve ever read, Osamu, you should really—why are you looking at me like that? Have I said something?”</p><p> </p><p>The answering silence drowns him, but Osamu throws him a rope—a light chuckle, a brief shake of his head that sends strands of his hair casting over his dark eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“No……you’ve called me by my name.”</p><p> </p><p>“I always call you by your name.”</p><p> </p><p>“My name, <em> only,” </em> says Osamu pointedly, <em> “ </em>Don’t apologise.”</p><p> </p><p>“But that is highly discourteous of me as your guest.”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu doesn’t immediately reply, lets his gaze linger as he reaches out to touch Keiji’s pale wrist. A brief prod, nothing more, of his finger to the joint between his palm and arm. A simple touch that can easily be mistaken for an accident, a callous brush of skin. It burns. </p><p> </p><p>“Keiji, you’re not just some <em>guest,” </em>the young lord spits the word out and onto the ground, spite and disbelief bunched into harmless letters. His eyes darken, looms slightly over Keiji. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji takes a step forward, they’re close enough that he can feel Osamu’s shaky breath on his cheek. When the man doesn’t budge, Keiji tips his gaze up. </p><p> </p><p>A thrill runs down his spine like a child, tumbling from the top of the hill to its foot, screaming all the way down as the wind chases them in the glaring sunlight. Up close, Osamu is just like that night. His pink mouth parts and his long lashes flutter to a close, broad chest rising and falling beneath his grey kimono. He can hear them too, the tradesmen manning stalls and the rowdy cheers from the festival. If he focuses, he’ll watch as the library dissipates into the dark alleyway and the grey skies make way for a starry blanket where the lustrous moon shines down on them, bathing the two men in silver and never gold. Too precious, too bright for anyone. </p><p> </p><p>In another life, he thinks, they will be fine as they are. Silver has its own beauty, its own lustre. Steel makes the strongest of ships, sailing to distant countries and making discoveries Gold would be too heavy for. But not in this, not when he can hear his brothers’ screams and feel the dried tear tracks cascading down his cheeks like a mask. </p><p> </p><p>He steps away, tremulous breath passing between his lips. </p><p> </p><p>“Keiji?” Osamu calls out after a moment, then again when he realises Keiji was no longer looking at him. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a warm hand around him, tugging him back to the present. Keiji blinks once then twice. The young lord has the faintest dust of pink across his cheeks, but they fade with the pressing concern in the tightness of his lips and eyes. He cradles Keiji’s wrist between his fingers with grace, gently rubbing over the taut skin with care Keiji deprives himself in weeks. </p><p> </p><p>Between his ribcage, a longing ache is birthed from the man’s gaze. They bore into him, searching for answers in the hollowness of his own body. There is nothing there for him to find but a carcass of the boy his mother left behind, Keiji knows this but Osamu doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>He is caring for a dying man. A shadow at best. </p><p> </p><p>The back of his eyes sting. Of all the things in the world, this is the least that Osamu deserves. But Keiji tilts his head heavenward, prays one last plea of confidence, and faces Osamu. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t pry his wrist away from the man’s warm fingers, doesn’t have the strength nor the will. Presses the pads of his thumb to Osamu’s palm. </p><p> </p><p>“‘Samu—oh, hello, Keiji.”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu’s fingers around him, hidden scaffolding, fall apart as he steps away when Atsumu enters the library. A nagging part behind him laughs. </p><p> </p><p>“Lord Atsumu,” Keiji distracts himself with a bow, “Good afternoon.”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu approaches him like a healer, cautious in the words he chooses and the way he carries himself towards the pair. “How are you today?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m feeling much better, thank you. For everything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please, don’t mention it,” Atsumu waves off easily, reassuring him with a smile. He claps his hands and his eyes widen. “Oh! That reminds me, I saw one of yer brothers at the merchant’s street earlier.”</p><p> </p><p>The air around the room is sucked in by one inhale. “Brother?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, he—oh, what’s his name? Yer eldest?”</p><p> </p><p>“You saw Hajime?” Keiji presses. </p><p> </p><p>“Hajime! Atta boy, yeah! I saw ‘im and some other guy—”</p><p> </p><p>He storms up to the lord, to his fiancé. “Where did you see him? Did you see where he went?”</p><p> </p><p>“Woah, Keiji, y’alright? Calm down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please,” Keiji cuts him off, “can you take me there?” </p><p> </p><p>The twins are bereft of words. Atsumu locks into the frenzy swimming in his affianced’s eyes and agrees silently, already walking back to his steed with Keiji hot on his tail and Osamu abandoned. </p><p>
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</p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure about this?” Issei chews at his bottom lip, eyeing warily at Keiji’s closed door. </p><p> </p><p>The night falls with haste, staining the village in sheets of black and navy. Atsumu dropped him off with a remark of being careful, gilded eyes  Keiji didn’t say much after that, goes into the house to find Issei and locks himself inside his room. Their father is out and nowhere to be seen but Keiji understands his brother’s caution easily. Walls have ears, after all. </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll be quiet,” assuages Keiji. He’s folding away dried laundry into Tobio’s shelf. “He won’t even notice we’re gone.”</p><p> </p><p>Issei scratches the nape of his neck. “He’s still our dad. I think—”</p><p> </p><p>“Issei. I don’t want to argue with you. I just want us to see our brother. I just want <em>us. </em> Is that okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Maybe there’s a fleeting edge to his voice, tiredness that makes the bags under his eyes ever more prominent, or a bite in his tone. Whatever he is, Issei’s hesitance wilts beneath it succumbs to the silent demand. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright. I’ll tell Tobio.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. Be prepared before midnight.”</p><p> </p><p>Issei is out of the door when Keiji hears him say, “I will.”</p><p>
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</p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>Earlier that day, Atsumu had pointed him in the vague direction of the Northern tree line, fingers roaming the faint shadows of the canopy. The katana in its sheath bounces against his thigh, a constant reminder of the present danger of just exposing themselves in the forest at nightfall. Rogue samurais hunt these lands like predators, scavenging the skies for prey that walk into the shadows. Tobio stays in the small gap between his two brothers, shielded on both sides. </p><p> </p><p>Even their youngest, known most for his witty-remarks and nonchalance, shivers at the howling breeze. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright,” Keiji reassures him, pats the round of his head once before going back to scanning the perimeter. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a faint light Westward and he points this out to Issei who squints his eye at it before nodding. They move in the shadows, hiding behind tree barks that rake at their palms like thorns, never quite staying still. </p><p> </p><p>They manage to stealthily come up to the house, it’s a dimly-lit cottage. Keiji looks to the side to where Issei stands on an opposing tree only to find him struggling against a man, the hilt of a blade pressed against his neck. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji doesn’t scream, body reacting on pure instinct as he launches himself at the stranger and tackles the body down. There’s a grunt before he’s rolled over, the figure looming over him with a hand knife. </p><p> </p><p>“Who are you!” he hissed. </p><p> </p><p>In the darkness, Keiji can only make out wisps of brown hair and matching sets of eyes. He’s unarmed aside from the knife, but the way he carries his body has years of training etched into his skin. He is a warrior no less than Keiji’s brother, of that he’s sure. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t stay still for long, Issei takes full advantage of the man’s turned back to knee his side. The man groans but leaps up almost instantly. Keiji scrambles to his feet and Issei pushes him behind. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re not here for a fight,” Issei grunts, lifting both of his arms in surrender. “We’re looking for our brother. Hajime, you heard of him?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re…Hajime’s brother?”</p><p> </p><p>“Brothers,” Keiji corrects. He nods towards where Tobio is standing behind the tree, protected from sight. The man catches the child’s shadow and drops his shoulders and blade before stepping into the light. </p><p> </p><p>He is handsome, chiselled jaw and cheekbones that match his lean bulky stature well. There is a tenderness in him when he pronounces their brother’s name, like a whisper and something more. </p><p> </p><p>“Hajime’s,” said like rain hitting Kirizuma roof tiles. “He’s in there.” </p><p> </p><p>The man doesn’t spare them another glance. He covers his blade and walks towards the cottage. Issei and Keiji share a glance before they motion for Tobio to join them, stalking behind the stranger and into their brother’s alleged home. </p><p> </p><p>They don’t enter when the man does and he shrugs at this, seems unnerved by their wariness. It is earned. The three boys remain quiet, sullen in the shadows of the forestry as bats begin to flutter around them. And then… </p><p> </p><p>Hajime looks homely. He’s fresh out of a bath, hair still damp and sticking to his forehead. He is bare save for the loose yukata hanging off his shoulders, barefoot in the presence of a deadly warrior. His eyes fill with recognition and regretful tears when they land on the scraggly trio. </p><p> </p><p>“You guys,” he starts, choking on a laugh and a sob. </p><p> </p><p>Issei laughs back despite the wetness in his eyes. “We couldn’t just let you win hide and seek, dumbass. Come here.”</p><p> </p><p>Hajime is hot from the soak, but the warmth that settles in Keiji’s chest is more than a proximal entropy. It is as though his world is slowly rebuilding, piece by piece. He catches the eye of the stranger when Hajime unhands them, eyes closed off and reserved but he stays. His gaze tracks the expanse of Hajime’s back with all the precision of a hunter but lacking their usual ferocity. He meets Keiji’s eyes and looks away into the open woods before trekking inside. </p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>The man, they learn, is Tooru from the Oikawa house. He, too, ran away from his oppressive family. The two of them met at the Samurai training mere weeks before Tooru escaped and worked on an escapade together, building a getaway in woods where no one but Samurai would dare enter. They could fend them with ease being the two best swordsmen of their class. </p><p> </p><p>Hajime introduces them to his lover like a parent, chariness and care in every vowel he utters. Tooru is not lethal, he laughs, just protective. </p><p> </p><p>Issei rolls his eyes but remains civil. Tobio, starry-eyed, is staring straight at Tooru’s form where he’s standing by the kitchen table. Keiji nods his head politely but doesn’t move to speak. Tooru regards them with the same steely eyes, but his defences are significantly lowered. They still protrude from the grounds like a fortress of stone, but that is expected of a warrior. Even Hajime in his sleep would still be entirely aware of his surroundings. Keiji knows this because he and Issei tried to play a joke on his sleeping form once, many summers ago, and received a slap each for it. </p><p> </p><p>The orange-soaked childhood memory flies from him, but the fondness remains.</p><p> </p><p>Tobio interrupts Hajime’s chatter for a question of his own, “Can you do that knife thing again?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Tooru huffs, mostly in shock rather than rejection. </p><p> </p><p>“The knife thing you did to Issei. I would like to sketch it.”</p><p> </p><p>“You want to…sketch me?” </p><p> </p><p>Hajime rises from where he sits to stand by the man, throwing one arm around the taller warrior’s shoulders with practised ease. “He only draws cool people, you know. Like me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tooru is cooler,” Tobio states coolly. </p><p> </p><p>This tears a guffaw out of the warrior, whose body shakes with each laugh that escapes him. Keiji stares and catches the second Hajime’s eyes slides over to face his lover and the way his entire face melts into affection. It looks natural on him, the smile on his lips and the fullness in his cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>Tooru agrees after his fit and Issei goes along as a prop much to his chagrin. Keiji and Hajime are out on the porch, watching the three of them with a cup of tea. </p><p> </p><p>“So, Atsumu told you where I was?” Hajime asks. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji nods. “Sort of. He just pointed at the forest, really.” </p><p> </p><p>Hajime laughs at this and he leans back onto his palms. Out on the clearing, Issei shrieks at the feeling of the sharp blade against his neck and Tobio is whining about how it wouldn’t look realistic otherwise. </p><p> </p><p>“Why have you kept this…” Keiji stops when the words stop coming to him. Succumbs to the silence like a resignation. </p><p> </p><p>Hajime sighs, “I know. I’ve wanted to tell you three for a long time but…” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Keiji finishes for him. He hasn’t lived long, neither of them has in this world, but he understands. Somewhat. There is an ocean of truth inside his brother, the four walls they called home were merely dams to him, barricades more than a shelter.  Hajime sends him a grateful look and sips his tea. Keiji glances into his own cup, watches the leaves sway at the bottom. “I’m just glad you’re not homeless on some street.”</p><p> </p><p>Hajime scoffs. “Tooru would never let me live like that and likewise.”</p><p> </p><p>“You two are..close,” Keiji decides. Hajime chokes on his tea and nods good-naturedly. </p><p> </p><p>“Close, <em> hah</em>, sure. I thought it was just that at first. Two guys, right? Friends. Me and Tooru,” he starts. The cup in his hand is placed delicately at his side and he rights himself props his hands across his knees and looks onwards to where <em> Tooru </em>is with no effort on his part. He pauses to chuckle under his breath when the warrior misplaces his feet and slides down a tree root. Even when he stands upright, Hajime’s gaze is fixed on him. Trailing, tracking. </p><p> </p><p>They are the same, Keiji realises, recalling the precision in those brown eyes that followed the three boys around Hajime earlier. For a brief second, he pictures steel-grey eyes and rosette lips. He blinks the mirage away and clears his throat, hopeful to dislodge the sudden lump forming. </p><p> </p><p>He asks because he needs to forget, “Is it dangerous out here?” </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing we can’t handle.” </p><p> </p><p>“I see.”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s that look for?” Hajime huffs, finally turning to him. “What’s up?” </p><p> </p><p>Lies build upon his tongue and impatiently sit, begging to be used. There is nothing for him to look into, nothing he doesn’t already know. Wishes and dreams, sunny days and hot ramen, merely distract him from the inescapable. No matter how many times he’ll revisit his memories, they end up the same. Fireworks at the festival, Osamu’s hot breath on his lips, then screaming and white, hot panic before tsunamis of anguish. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji’s grip on his cup tightens and he goes to place it down, somewhat relieved to find it empty, and draws a haggard breath. </p><p> </p><p>He knows and knows and yet… </p><p> </p><p>“How did you know? About Tooru, I mean.” </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t really know what to expect, never thought he’d ever have this conversation with Hajime. Issei, maybe. The look he receives is of surprise, but there’s the ugliest tinge of torment settling between his eyebrows. Keiji looks away. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Hajime starts, his brain must be fumbling with an answer, never expecting to face Keiji’s doubt since they were last children. But it should be okay, adults are nothing but overgrown children. His fingers are longer, that is all ageing has gifted him. “Uh, that’s a loaded question, but I guess it’s when I started looking at him. Like, <em> really </em>see him, you know?” </p><p> </p><p>Keiji nods, but he doesn’t really get it. Hajime continues. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s say you’re walking by the market and you see a stranger. You’re not really going to care what they’re doing, right? You look once, see them set their stall, and look away. But if it’s someone you care about, you get to see the smaller things. For example, I knew Tooru was a good fighter, wasn’t the best in our class for nothing, that man. I didn’t know how…” he coughs into his arm at this, ears burning brown at the confession. “I didn’t know how <em> good </em>he looked doing it.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji mulls this over. “So, lust?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not lust!” Hajime shrieked, eyes bulging out of their sockets. Their audience turns to face them, curiosity in their gazes, but Tobio drags the two men out of it soon enough. Hajime clears his throat, chugs his tea, puts the cup down and sighs with deep exasperation, “Not—you can’t just say that out loud.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hajime, we’re in our twenties.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope, not hearing it,” he cuts Keiji off with a wave, “Just… attraction, at first. Then comes the infatuation. I wanted to see him more, I wanted to <em> know </em>him, know things that weren’t meant for a friends’ ears.”</p><p> </p><p>The words ring in his ears like shrine bells, echoing fervently into the darkest crevices of his mind. They pull out poetic verses, stories of salt maids and their skirts, the feel of heat on his waist, and the faintest plucks of the Kato. </p><p> </p><p>“Like what?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know, like… what does he do in the morning? What he sounds like when he just woke up, is his hair naturally like that? I mean, you have to admit, that does not look natural at all. No one has hair like that. No one.”</p><p> </p><p>Against Hajime’s rambles, the wonders hidden in his head—keepsakes in the shape of triangular rice balls and a fox mask, things he has shoved and locked to be buried in the many chasms of his body—burst alive. They burn him from the inside out until he is more char than man, a vessel of memories. It is searing pain, seizes him by his ankles and <em>pulls, </em> drowning him in peels of laughter and warm embraces, in hues of silver and navy—colours he wished to be blind to. </p><p> </p><p>He presses the pads of his palms into his eyes but the visions do not stop. Osamu glancing worriedly from his side, across them the raging Lady Miya. Osamu holding his hand as the Autumn wind picks up. Osamu leading a militia home on his horse, commandeering the guarding samurai with deserved dignity and might. Osamu’s wide-set grin when he plucks Keiji away from his brother and into the hallway, Osamu’s hand in his, promises of the festival. Osamu against him, chest to chest and nose to nose, pious in the way he whispers Keiji’s name. <em> Ke-i-ji</em>. </p><p> </p><p>They leak out of him; he is a broken faucet, whinging at the slightest turn, rusting with memories. Hajime is there, arms around him, but he cannot hear anything past the whirr of days gone by. There is one name on the edge of his voice as torrents of longing wash over him like ice water. Had it always been there, all this time? This ache for skinship, the undesirable want to hear him speak. </p><p> </p><p>“Keiji,” Hajime repeats, “Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>He brushes his hand under his eyes and wipes the wet off his skin. He shudders when a strong gust of wind blows through the forest. He meets Hajime’s eyes, tries to ground himself but feels his will dimming as the seconds go by. </p><p> </p><p>He says, “Do you hurt?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not always.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you do.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is part of it,” explains his brother. Always the wise one. Hajime squeezes his shoulder. “Loving someone.”</p><p> </p><p>“Love…” The word tastes foreign on his tongue, even his lips shape weirdly around it. In this world, bereft of his mother, was he even capable? Keiji shakes his head. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you have someone?” </p><p> </p><p>The air of hesitance, of veiled insight waiting to be affirmed. Keiji sees through it all. His brothers, none of them are lacking in intelligence. Their parents lucked out with their sons and he is reminded of this fact even now as he hears Hajime say those carefully picked words. They both know the answer, but Keiji is a step ahead. </p><p> </p><p>“No.” Finality brings his voice lower than his normal register. Then, he adds “I don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Hajime doesn’t speak to him for the rest of the night. Keiji isn’t sure he wants to, either way. </p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>They return home when the moon is hung high, setting everything in luminesce. Tobio is half-asleep, lugging his body more than walking with one hand bunched up in Issei’s work shirt. Keiji’s legs are leaden, the forest is no easy trek. Issei keeps his arm around both of them, making sure none were left behind. </p><p> </p><p>Tooru is nice, he frames Tobio’s sketch on the wall by the door. He smiles at Keiji when they walk away and slips his arm around Hajime’s shoulder. The sheer pang of envy disturbs him so he looks away, ignores the pair and their happiness until they were no longer in sight. </p><p> </p><p>He cannot wait to wash the evening away with sleep, floating in a dreamscape where none of the burdens he carries throughout the day is within reach. </p><p> </p><p>He must’ve known it was wishful thinking. </p><p> </p><p>“Is that?” Keiji mutters, watches the figure on the porch of their home. </p><p> </p><p>Issei clicks his tongue, but he doesn’t stop walking. Keiji is dragged by force. “Ah, shit. Fuck’s sake, what’s he doin’ up? Tobio, you stay behind us, okay? Don’t do anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Boys,” their father grunts as they walk up the bamboo steps. </p><p> </p><p>Issei is quick. He blurts out, “Dad, we—”</p><p> </p><p>“Get some sleep, you two,” the man orders, waves his two sons away, then looks at him. “Keiji, stay.”</p><p> </p><p>Tobio, half-asleep as he is, awakens the tiniest bit and stays put beside Keiji. His heart warms as he cards his fingers through the boy’s thick raven hair. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay,” Keiji reassures his brothers. He gently ushers them inside, “I’ll see you in a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>Issei warily leaves, keeps eyeing the pair of them until he’s fully inside Tobio’s room. Keiji picks at his nails, the overwhelming feeling of being small swallows him whole. He feels half his age, standing in front of his father like this. No matter how many times he talks himself out of feeling guilt or remorse for the man, there is something instinctual about the way he lowers his head, keeps his gaze down. But instincts are nothing but learned behaviours and after the night he has had, Keiji is more than capable of breaking a few old habits. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what you could ever possibly have to say to me but let me make myself clear. I am an adult and I can and will make my own decisions,” he begins. </p><p> </p><p>The man parts his mouth, but Keiji silences him with a glare. “I’ve made up my mind to protect my family and I will die before I break my promise to Mama. I will take care of Tobio until I physically cannot bear to any longer. Until then, I will continue living my life for my brothers. If you—if you have any objections, I hope you will save them as they will fall on deaf ears. Then, goodnight.”</p><p> </p><p>He turns on his heels, stepping inside the house when he hears the man’s guttural croak. “Keiji…”</p><p> </p><p>He is a desert of patience, dry as the croplands in drought, as he stalks away from the man and into his own room. There is no place for mercies for anyone if he isn’t allowed to lend the same sentiment to himself.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. December 17th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It is easy to pretend, he finds. It is even easier when the seasons begin to change. Winter is settling in their small village and he never leaves his house without his haori coat, as per Issei’s adamant instructions. His brother, now the eldest in the house, fusses like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hen</span>
  </em>
  <span>—which Keiji would have found endlessly entertaining if it weren’t for the turmoil in his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their father stays out of the way, almost a phantom that lurks in the shadows of their house, speaking in guttural moans when the boys fall into a fitful slumber. It’s better this way. Keiji leaves the house as early as he can, makes sure Tobio is dropped off at the academy and walks straight to the Miya mansion’s tutorial rooms. He doesn’t leave until the day ends, eats his lunch inside to avoid any mishaps. It’s weirdly nice to be alone with thoughts that do not want to maul him in every waking moment. Now that he’s dead-set on his goal and fully affirmed in his role, Keiji finds the clearance a comfort. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He discards all impracticalities, the anxieties and second-guessing, chucks them out the window like a bad harvest in the last week of August. There is a surety in his bones, ones that he wants and ones that he doesn’t. Factual memories branded into his skin, he pushes them away. Drowns his affections in negligence until they simmer out. But they don’t, not really. He knows this more than anyone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At every mention of </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> name, even those out of his tutors’ mouths in passing feels like an electric shock. The slightest glimpse of grey and he’s already turning his head to see and doesn’t pout when it turns out to be his eyes playing tricks. Osamu, to his credit, does not seek him out either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The silence is expected, but it is unwanted all the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It festers like dirt under his nails, like the sweltering heat of summer. It’s there and there’s nothing Keiji can do about it. He wants to hold him, wants to feel how his skin gives to Keiji’s fingers, how warm it must be. Keiji is a cartographer who wishes nothing more but to explore. He thinks about him constantly, as Hajime says, and wonders about the banal things in life. What would Osamu have for breakfast and what does he sound like satiated? How would he look first thing in the morning, with Keiji beside him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that’s when he stops. He is an adult because he has stronger willpower than children, holds his affections by its reins and tugs. He is allowed to fantasise, to dream, as long as he continues his duties, what he is here for in the first place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The wedding is set for New Year’s Eve, only a short fourteen days from now, and preparations are resuming with haste. His lessons are stopped, making way for the more important things like fittings and vow practices. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji winces when the seamstress pinches his waist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop whining,” she scoffs, “get down. We’ll try the ivory.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It has been a long three hours. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji has tried no less than ten garments now, of that he’s sure. They lie as a pile by his left, silky smooth robes of varying seasonal colours—chartreuse, white, grey, maroon, sunset orange, lilac, ivory, cream, sky blue, and even rose pink—and the most luxurious embellishments. He feels like a doll, a tacky one. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lady clicks her fingers and her assistants swoop in, carrying an entirely new dress. Keiji gives it a once over and feels his heart stop. Of the ten he has been dressed up with so far, they have all been variations of the traditional hakama, this one is pure, innocent, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bridal. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji stares at the furisode kimono and its train, the urge to scream and cry claw at him, bears their fangs and talons into his skin—it is a reminder. It always is, in the end. Whatever fragments of dignity and honour he stores from standing up to his father and crawling back alive are shattered into smithereens. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t lift his hand nor aid the woman dressing him. It is such a tiny thing, but it hurls him back to reality all the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite the degrading act of actually putting it, the robes fit him the same as the others, baggy and tight in the wrong places. The seamstress’ frustrated sigh feels like a scream in his ears and Keiji wants nothing more but to return to his lessons and practice the same calligraphy and face his berating tutor than whatever this is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You—” the seamstress begins with a harsh point in his direction only to stop when the door to the living, now makeshift fitting, room slides open. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu, armoured and sweaty, peers in with a grin when his eyes land on Keiji. “There you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lord Atsumu,” Keiji greets politely with a bow. The kimono drapes weirdly on his shoulders and he has to press a palm to his chest to avoid receiving an eyeful from the landlord. When he looks back up, Atsumu is beaming. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keiji! You look amazing. You’ve truly outdone yourself, Madam!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The comment stings. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The modiste flushes scarlet at the mighty praise, face angelic in comparison to the snide thing she showed him earlier. “Oh, why…thank you, my lord.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Only the truth for the best seamstress in the village,” promises Atsumu with a wink. The seamstress swoons and Keiji considers dropping to catch her should she faint, but deems it unnecessary when Atsumu sidles up to her and rights her up. “Careful there.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She bats her lashes at him. “You are most kind, my lord.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji sighs at the woman’s simper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu unhands the lady and walks right up to him. On the pedestal that the seamstress uses as a mini-stage, Keiji has a foot above him. It doesn’t deter the lord who still has that wide smile plastered on his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can I talk to you? In private?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The question is so off-handed that Keiji has to blink and process before he gulps to answer. “Of course.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He goes to step off but Atsumu simply waves his hand and the seamstress and her assistant go in peace, sliding the door close behind them as they exit. Free at long last, Keiji steps off the stage and huffs, running his hands down the kimono. The coolness from the silk chills his skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look really great,” offers Atsumu into silence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji glances at the long-mirror. The robes fall off his shoulders like streams of water, jetting to his wrists where they collect in a pool of clouds. Wisps of gold are woven into the collar, it pales his eyes under the morning star, paints him sickly and desolate. The trail of ivory past his ankles follows him as the unbidden truth. He sighs before facing the man. Like this, it couldn’t be more apparent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu, daring and bold in armour and grit. Keiji, dainty in the whites of his dress. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He bites around it, forces bitter gratitude on his tongue and expels it with haste. “Thank you, sir.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you not think so?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How could I?” he blurts without a moment’s pause. Keiji grips the winding dress in his hands and bunches them up. They collect like clouds between his fingers, each glimmering fold like coal to the flames of irritation. “They turned me into… into this </span>
  <em>
    <span>lady.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>Objections like waste are bubbling out of the darkest crevices in his body. He scoffs but swallows the ire that starts bubbling up his throat, shaking his head. “I know… I know brought this on myself and I have no right to complain, but I keep hearing the maids, their </span><em><span>whispers, </span></em><span>calling me pretty and </span><em><span>deserving</span></em><span>—</span> <span>”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu’s voice pierces through the train wreck in his head, shattering its carts to smithereens. Keiji looks up, locks onto those amber pools.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, Keiji,” mutters Atsumu into the space between them. Keiji watches him in silence as the man steps closer, eyes tracking the movement of his arms as they lean forward to clasp Keiji’s fingers in his. A squeeze. “I’m sorry, I never meant to belittle you like that. If you will take any of my apologies, I hope it’ll be in the truth of my admiration towards you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sir?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I… I know I’ve treated you horribly… I accepted your proposal as a joke and I know Gramma has it phrased that marrying a man would be my downfall but after meeting you, seeing you learn and face the Miya monarch herself…” Their hands fall between them. Atsumu curls his fingers into a fist, stretching his digits out until they are taut and drawing them in again. “Keiji, I think </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>marrying you would be the greatest failure of my life.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He isn’t proud of the spurts of directionless and unreasoned panic that collect at the bottom of his lungs like lake water after a rainy night. “What are you saying?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keiji,” his name spills out from Atsumu’s lips again, acrid and gentle like the sweetness of lime. “I care about you a whole lot.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu finds his hands again, gently clasping them between his palms—the warmth is scorching but fleeting. “If yer up for it, I’d very much like to take you out sometime. If that’s okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But how are you sure?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu blinks blankly at him and the laxation is wiped away the second Keiji wrenches his wrists free. The young looks down at the rift between them, where their hands hang loosely by their sides as broken bridges on either side of a cliff. But they aren’t scorned, there is hope yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not.” When Keiji looks at him, he’s already turning away. “I’m not, but that’s okay, right?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji shakes his head. If this were another time, there would be rivers of his sadness streaming down his cheeks. But he has outgrown his shell, wandering for a contending home space to house him, his aspirations and doubts and everything else he can’t ever say. Atsumu presents him a cave and the crevices are dark enough so that he wouldn’t question him, surely, of the many tears in his skin that he collects, souvenirs of a forgotten time. He knows this, but there’s spite in his heart that knows it won’t fit, knows it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>real. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re mistaken, Lord Atsumu.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t call me that,” begs Atsumu. He ducks his head, chin to chest, and digs his palms into his eyes. There’s a crack in his voice when he speaks again. “Anything but that. Please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji twists his knife, knows the gap between the third and fourth rib well. “You’re just confused. We’re not—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then show me!” His eyes are red, constellations of fear and something darker lurk in the shadows of his vision. They pierce right through him and Keiji can’t bring himself to look away. Atsumu closes the gap between them and Keiji flushes as they exchange shaky breaths. “Show me, Keiji.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gulps. “Show you what?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“Show me what’s real.” At the silence, he continues. “Just once, Keiji.</span> <span>Anything.” </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji’s hand moves at their own will, soaring through the chasm between them and resting below Atsumu’s cheekbone. The young lord’s eyes flutter shut, wobbly libs thinning close as he leans into the touch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just once?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just once,” promises Atsumu. He tears himself away with great reluctance but faces Keiji to answer him. “Just once and… if you make up your mind and you decide that I’m not for you, I’ll still marry you to finish your debt and treat you as a respectable roommate.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A roommate,” Keiji scoffs, unbelieving of the life that plays out before him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu nods fervently. “A roommate, really. We’ll share quarters as expected, but I won’t subject you to everything the heir’s….spouse would normally be targeted with. And maybe we can become friends.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Keiji says with a soft smile. Outside, the skies are glowing orange, blossoming clouds of yellow and pinks begin to fly up from the horizon. “So, what did you have in mind, sir?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A walk tomorrow through the forest shrine. Will you be free in the afternoon?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My lessons should end then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu graces him with a smile. “Perfect. I’ll step out so you can undress and change, I’ll walk you to the gates,” he says before stepping out of the room and sliding the door close around him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In his freedom, Keiji feels the weight settle on his smile--it hangs off the sides of his lips as a fresh coat of gold over the lily, pristine and hot to the touch, but dripping. He bends down, discards the outer layers of the hakama and begins to dismantle its insides. He moves in autopilot, somewhat coherent but still absent, good enough to fold the individual pieces and lay them square on the floor beside the heap of failures. Distaste like burnt corn flame up the back of his throat as he scans over the island of clothing before shucking on his kimono and leaving the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu is entertaining in the way he converses, charming and elegant with all the correct boyish jests that make him appear younger than what Keiji assumes he’d be. He pauses his sentence to the modiste the moment Keiji steps out of the door and bows politely at the two ladies before siding up next to him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“All okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji nods once, there isn’t much else he’d like to add anyway and follows Atsumu’s pace. It’s a stroll to the front gates, but he appreciates the turn of pace. Like this, he can note the many different species of trees that line the gatehouse and how the pebbling paths converge and diverge in shades of brick and grey. Atsumu, thankfully, doesn’t initiate conversation, content with the passive acceptance swimming between them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The guards bow their heads as Atsumu passes, he doesn’t bat an eye at their submission. It’s no longer a glaring difference in Keiji’s eyes, but it doesn’t help the disparaging sentiments in their gazes toward him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They reach the gatehouse quick enough and Atsumu presses his fingers into the small divot in Keiji’s wrist as a goodbye before stepping away. The gates creak open and Keiji throws one last glance behind him before striding away. Each step away from the mansion enhances the muffling in his ears, plush cotton pulled over his lobes. He can’t hear the steady crunch below his feet nor the whispering breeze that tickles his neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t hear much until he sees him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t look much different from the last time Keiji saw him. Maybe leaner from the weeks of distance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Osamu is walking home, walking towards him, and yet he hasn’t lifted his head. They stay fixed on the soil below his feet that bear the markings of soldiering footfalls that came before him. Keiji doesn’t dare move, not even as Osamu begins to near him. A few steps away, tangible to touch and not a figment of Keiji’s nightmares. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re a foot away and Keiji raises an arm, a pathetic excuse of a wave, and lets it fall when Osamu doesn’t lift his gaze. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He does a double-take as the man passes him silently, continuing on his journey homeward. There’s an aborted noise that escapes him before he’s rounding on him and walking by his side.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lord Osamu?” Silence. He waves again but the most Osamu does is nudge him passively with a swing of his shoulder. It’s a two-centimetre gap, but it feels like an abyss to him. There is want beneath the skin off his fingers, itching to reach out and grab at those broad shoulders, turn him around and make him face Keiji. But these savage desires have no place in his humanity—in his sacrifice. It does little to drive him away, in any case. There is a single word on his tongue, a name too heavy to say, one almost foreign to him, but he closes his eyes and mutters it into the silence as a minute prayer. “Osamu.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The footfalls stop. Osamu doesn’t move, but he doesn’t leave. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji is faced with his back, draped in a coat over his normal kimono and he’s almost glad. There is something comforting and merciful about not being met with the eyes that he left. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he starts with because there is nowhere else for him now. “For ignoring you after what happened with my brother.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Osamu still doesn’t speak. Keiji bites his lip and chews on the inside of his cheek. “That was awful of me. I shouldn’t have pushed you away.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s done is done.” Keiji is so startled at the deep timbre in his voice that he jolts in his spot. Osamu doesn’t turn to face him, but the truth resonates like echoes in the space between them. “Go home, Akaashi.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like a slap. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How long has it been since Osamu addressed him by his surname? One he will soon lose? He blinks the pain away and opens his eyes wide even though they sting. “I know I hurt you,” he tries to reason, “but can’t we go back to being friends?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t be friends with someone who doesn’t take my advice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This again? Didn’t I tell you that friends don’t order each other around?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Osamu whirls on him, face red. “And didn’t I tell you not to marry him?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And why not?” Keiji challenges, fists curled by his sides. “Why shouldn’t I</span>
  <em>
    <span>?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Osamu’s grey eyes flicker once to the skies before they settle on him again. He doesn’t lessen their distance but steps away turn around and dismiss him with a hand. “Go home. It’s getting late.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I said, why shouldn’t I?” Keiji repeats, the ends of his words cracking into the evening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just.. go home.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji watches as Osamu goes further and further away, slipping through his reach like sand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>#</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thin veils of frost glisten beneath the December sun, riming the greyish winged pods of the Katsura trees and littering the trail they trek through with diamond-like lustre. Far from the village, hidden below evergreen canopies, Keiji walks politely behind Atsumu, head bowed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They meet in the juncture between the roads leading to the woods and the mansion with minor hassle (Atsumu came on horseback and had to find a place to tie his horse down attracting his fair share of odd looks by market-goers) and walked all the way up here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is reminiscent of the night he and his brothers sought out Hajime, again by Atsumu’s discretion. Keiji flicks his thumb from his pointer finger, parts his lips before he lets himself be washed away by tidal silence yet again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for that tip about my brother,” he starts, “I don’t think I’ve properly expressed my gratitude since then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Forgotten leaves of all shades crunch below Atsumu’s sandals when he continues to march onwards. He throws one quick look behind him, a pink smile that is warm enough to melt the woods’ decorative permafrost acolytes. “Don’t mention it! I knew you were busy, I had things to tend to as well. And I knew how you must feel… if anything happened to that oaf Samu…” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji lets a light chuckle free despite himself and Atsumu’s grin widens. He sets course forwards until they reach the foot of a flight of steps that appeared green with mould on its corners. Atsumu climbs a step and then turns to offer Keiji a hand. It’s so simple, Gods, but he couldn’t help the flushing of his cheeks against the hoarfrost of their surroundings. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He slides his hand onto Atsumu’s palm, feels the jolt of reassurance when the young lord catches Keiji’s fingers with his own. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For all your silence, you really do care about Lord Osamu,” comments Keiji. Atsumu sighs, eyeing the way their hands are dangling between them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s my brother,” he explains, lifting his gaze to catch Keiji’s expecting stare. “He’s the only one I have left, I kinda can’t hate him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But the monarch?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu shakes his head, eyelids fluttering close and lighting the embers of his lashes with a streak of light that managed to infiltrate the canopy’s barrier. “You know that’s different.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he does know, thinks of the quiet trust and bond between his brothers—the shoulder squeeze from Issei as he leaves to drop Tobio off, the complete and utter acceptance in Hajime’s gaze when he told Keiji about his first love. Atsumu’s hand nudges his thigh and they continue upwards, ascending to the brightness of the open clearing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The shrine stands tall and scarlet against the ivory forest behind it and the dirt makes way for polished flagstone, flooring the open courtyard. It is certainly grander than the communal shrine they built down in the village but it is mildewed from years of disuse. Its supporting beams are dystrophic with age and leprosy, chipping red paint collecting at the enshrined. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji can count the times he had visited this shrine on one hand. Beside him, Atsumu’s face is lax with acceptance, his gilded eyes rake through the building’s structure with familiarity before he lets a deep exhale escape him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s been so long,” Keiji hears him mutter. The man stares down at their entwined hands and offers a firm squeeze. Atsumu smiles softly at him before he takes Keiji along. “My father used to take me up here all the time, it was the shrine my great great Grandfather built.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They circle the perimeter, Atsumu’s hand ghosting the fencing as his other is kept tight in Keiji’s clasp. Now that they’re so much closer, it is even easier to spot senescence in each ripening palisade, they wheeze under Atsumu’s touch and give in to force.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu hums, steers them away from the failing fences and towards the shrine itself. “Yeah, and he’ll go on for days about it, too. Loved to talk about the village’s history, my dad.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You sound very fond of him,” says Keiji gently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They step foot into the shrine, claps their hands in front of the sanctuary and bow deeply before backing away. Atsumu takes in the shrine’s interior, the tiniest of smiles slipping on his face. It smoothens his features considerably and if Keiji didn’t know any better, he’d say he had a few years on Atsumu. But then that innocence dims and Keiji observes raptly as Atsumu hangs his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He was the best dad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry about what happened,” offers Keiji. “Lord Osamu told me how young you were when you lost him.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu waves a hand dismissively. “Nah, don’t apologise, yer just wasting yer breath, Keiji,” laughs the young lord as exit into the glaring sun. “My old man’s probably preening down on us right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji looks skywards to humour him but wonders if his mother, too, is preening down on him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Would she approve? Would she shake her head and demean him, withhold her tasty vegetable soup from him at dinner? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In any case, yer sweet for caring. Reminds me a lot of him back then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji shakes his head, plunges back into this reality. He looks at Atsumu, confusion written all over his face when he asks doubtfully, “Your dad?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” responds Atsumu, still staring heavenward. When they lock eyes, there is a new flame burning in the young lord’s eyes, pretty in the way it blooms like daffodils in Spring but bitter in how it vanishes into cinders in the next second. “My best friend.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you guys fight?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The laugh that comes out of Atsumu is dry and scratchy. “No, he, uh, he passed away two years ago.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Keiji gulps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. It’s why Samu left. Rin was his best friend, too.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s… awful.” He clears his throat. “If I may ask, how did he pass?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Atsumu nods but surrenders to the silence, swaying their linked arms between them. Keiji stares down and wonders how deep the rift between him and the twins is. What sort of tales do they keep hidden inside their sheaths? What secrets and past scars mar their skin, too light to be seen by the naked eye but too deep to ever be forgotten? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The young lord shakes his head and smiles, finally. “I was selfish, I wanted him as something more than he could give. We fought and he stormed out into the storm. You can make out the rest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m very sorry,” settles Keiji, rubbing the cleft between Atsumu’s fingers with his thumb. Again, the young lord shakes his head, dismisses his condolences. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, don’t. I…I could wallow in self-pity for the rest of my waking hours if I wanted to, but I don’t want to do that anymore. Not since I met you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji’s brows surge upwards, creasing his forehead as Atsumu unlinks their hands and rubs his palms together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keiji, even if you cannot find it in you to love me, I hope that we at least remain friends throughout our marriage. That is all I want.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sir,” mutters Keiji but he’s stolen of words as three rouge samurais, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ronin, </span>
  </em>
  <span>dart out of the bushes, rounding on them until they are cornered on each side. “Atsumu-san!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rogues grin at the pair of men with malice, drawing their swords till Keiji can see from the tip of their blades to their hilts. His heart pounds inside his ribcage, the only thing grounding him at that moment was the vice grip Atsumu had on his wrist, unrelenting and forceful. Before they could even make their escape, one of the samurais tip their blade at Atsumu who, defenceless, dashes forwards to engage in hand-to-hand combat and disarms the warrior with a twist of his wrist. He’s about to rush to his left and attack the other samurai but snaps his head back when he hears the slice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keiji feels it before he sees it, the prick of the blade across the expanse of his back. Then again, two cuts like claws down his back. He feels his knees buckle below him and the faint scream of his name before his world fades into the darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Pearls Before Swine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steam fills the air like cobwebs entangling the aromatic spices in the broth set to boil on the stovetop. Spring onions, chicken, carrots, ginger—he tosses them in with vigour and they drown madly in the liquid, suffocating in the heat which swallows them whole. He observes with minute fascination, feels the kinship in suffering. As the water turns opaque, his reflection—all furrowed bushy brows, scowling, monstrous eyes—begins to swim to the surface. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu tears himself away from the hob. Skittishness rests like a parasite below his skin, sluggishly draining him but too out of reach until all he can do is sit there and <em>take it. </em> He wraps his arms around himself, lets a shaky exhale escape him, and lets himself fall. </p><p> </p><p>How long would it be like this? How long does he have left before history repeats before him until he’s begging at the sky for mercy, for something he can’t ever have back? Would the regret hunt him ceaselessly yet again, both tormenting his waking and sleeping moments until they are all but a blur? </p><p> </p><p>It had been a year since he left home, three months since his return and he had hoped to the lord's dwelling in heaven to spare him forgiveness but instead, he came back to where it all started. </p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>Suna Rintarou was everything Osamu loved and despised. He was cunning and quick on his feet, taking various roles within the Suna House, the perfect body for lordship. As much as he was charming, he was also deadpan and directionless, falling into complacency if he believed the world around him would allow it.</p><p> </p><p>There had never been a day where he didn’t have a bone to pick with the boy. Of the decade shared between them, Osamu would at least land a quip on the boy’s laziness before the moon peaked and Suna would shrug but down Osamu’s drink when he wasn’t looking. </p><p> </p><p>But just like everything else, Osamu’s fondness for his friend outweighed his distaste. Before they realised it, Osamu had grown into his ears and Suna’s shoulders were broader than either of the twins’. The three young men were never seen alone, lest they need to attend their tutoring or training, but even in those moments Suna, Atsumu, and Osamu seemed to always find a way to escape and spend time with each other. </p><p> </p><p>Suna would never say it, not even in his dying breath, but Osamu knew that he and his brother meant more to the young heir than he’d like to admit. And it was a good thing, too, that this all seemed reciprocal. Osamu wasn’t sure he could survive living with Atsumu for half his life if Suna wasn’t there to buffer. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> He’s an asshole, </em> ” Osamu once bit out, chewing the bread roll ferociously. “ <em> Absolute piss-head. Dropped as a baby, I tell ya. Fucking… piece of shit. </em>” </p><p> </p><p>Suna scoffs beside him, the rice balls his maids prepared untouched. Ahead of them is the Suna House’s elaborate garden, pristine and evergreen—just like how Rin’s mother liked it. The bonsai leaves shine brilliantly under the summer sun and Osamu could only curse at it. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> You say that now, but I bet you’ll make up before dinner </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> No, I hate him forever </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Sure</em>,” Suna hummed then. Osamu guessed, now that his friend isn’t there to mediate their fights anymore, that accepting defeat was an easy lesson learned for Rin. It must be the years of growing together. Even so, Suna turned to him and got up, offering him a hand once he’s on his feet. “ <em> Let’s go ride. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Huffing as exasperatedly as his lungs allow, Osamu took his hand and trailed after, always following. And he was right, too, because when Atsumu silently passed him a sliver of tuna at the dinner table and he wondered, staring at the way the salmon roe toppings roll down his hill of rice and bumping into the oily skin of fish, how one person has grown to know them so well. </p><p> </p><p>He just wished he took the time to do the same. </p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>Osamu fans the fire off when the pot starts to shake violently. </p><p> </p><p>He’s all alone in the kitchen and, even here, there are still traces of <em>him</em>. </p><p> </p><p>The counter, for example, is stained from the time he and Rin decided diabolically to dye Atsumu’s bathing soaps green from mint and milkweed that they found scouring the tree lines. He vividly remembers the sweat trickling down his temples and the pair of clammy hands mixing the plants with him, only ten winters old. </p><p> </p><p>By the window sits a dying peony, grey from the moist and lack of sun, bent over the tall jug the kitchen staff used as a vase. When they were fourteen, Osamu bawled after scraping his knee at a horse riding lesson. He remembers wanting to quit, fervently shaking his head when his grandmother gave him a thorough talking about running away from his training. Then he remembers the cool night rushing in and hearing that oh so familiar pattern of footsteps. Suna didn’t say a word to him, just sat the handful of peonies by his side and left. </p><p> </p><p>He knows that shoved deep in the oaken cupboard his grandma bought three years ago, there’s a chipped ceramic bowl that he and Suna once used to make Atsumu a “magic soup” so he could stop “<em> whining and get the hell up already </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Before his culinary renaissance, Osamu used to never be trusted with so much as tableware. They had to sneak into the kitchen, two eight-year-olds in the late evening, and Suna had to tip his toes to actually cook on the stove. When done, Osamu moved to pass him the bowl but accidentally knocked it into the sink, where a piece of it came off. The two boys shared a look of sheer panic. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> What did you do! </em>” Suna had hissed, eyes snapping wide. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> It’s not my fault, </em> ” Osamu whined, but even he knew he wasn’t convincing anyone. “ <em> We gotta hide it, quickly!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>It remains there, untouched and unseen. They came out of the kitchen alive with some sort of seaweed soup on a tray, marching tensely to the twins’ room. </p><p> </p><p>And then there’s Osamu. </p><p> </p><p>Tainted with memories in every single pore and joint in his body like ink on skin, smudged and fuzzy but too prominent to ever forget. For the longest time, each exhale he drags out of his lungs or every step his foot lands didn’t come without grief that tasted too much like burnt regret, like a love that doesn’t know where else to go. </p><p> </p><p>He shuts his eyes close, blinks away the fog that starts to cloud his mind. He can’t afford to let himself fall <em>again. </em>Osamu is too young to begin categorising the philosophies of life and to preach it as though he had them stored in the pocket of his brain that has yet to lose to insanity, but if it is so then how does he know the pain of loss like a relative? Haunting him in the moments he least expects, jumping at the opportunity to catch up. </p><p> </p><p>It would be fine, <em> he </em>would be fine if that damned Akaashi would’ve just taken his advice and ran for his life. Osamu doesn’t understand how any material wealth could ever amount to anything greater than life. His brother isn’t a murderer, none of their hands is smeared with past sins, but nothing will ever change. Akaashi puts himself in danger every time he walks up to the gatehouse and into his tutoring lessons, each time he smiles at Osamu and grins nonchalantly without a care at the poems he spews as warnings. </p><p> </p><p>Gods know he has tried and tested, exhausting all poems that came to mind until all he was left with were verses of flowers and rosy affections. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Ugh, a love poem, you should take me to more eateries after subjecting me to such trifling literature</em>,” Keiji complained back then, eyes an ocean of mirth-laced humour. He recalls trying to count the many spikes Keiji’s irises drew from his pupils. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu lost count after fifty-one. </p><p> </p><p>He tilted his head, thumbing the sash around Keiji’s waist, light enough so the man wouldn’t feel the pressure through his clothing. “<em> You don’t like love poems? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> I think love is fickle. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>The young man had scoffed to himself, thinking of only one other person who could ever say such a ruthless truth. </p><p> </p><p>When he catches Keiji’s eyes, feels it physically on his side and in the warmth under Keiji’s fingers on his arm, he almost sees someone else but it is a mirage at best. </p><p> </p><p>His dance partner flicked his eyes towards the plucking Kato, humming sweetly under his breath, just loud enough to mask the tremulous breath that escaped Osamu. </p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Love is stupid</em>,” Rin, seventeen and already jaded, muttered. </p><p> </p><p>They were lying on the grass, moisture catching on the edges of their sleeves, dampening the cloth from the shadows beneath them. Autumn is fleeting around the clearing—the trees have shed all they could, turning the ground into one big patchwork of mahogany, maroons, and marigolds. Rin gathers a handful of overgrown weeds beside him, twisting them with malice and tossing them aside. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu had frowned. He turned to his friend so that his right shoulder touched the cool foliage and studied the boy—fourteen peeking fifteen, all hooded eyes and prominent scowls. Back then, Rin was never one for giggles and guffaws, he’d let a chuckle slip at best, but Osamu never saw him with his head thrown back like Atsumu’s ugly cackling. </p><p> </p><p>He offers the guy a smile, poking Rin’s bare wrist with a finger. “<em> You’re just saying that cause you’re not old enough </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Age has nothing to do with it. And shut up, We’re only a few months apart, </em>” complained Rin with a shove. Osamu laughed, falling flat on his back to stare up at the skies. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Fine, I’ll bite. Why is love stupid?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em> Just is. I don’t have to explain myself to someone who pooped his pants.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Osamu sat up in an instant, smacking the open expanse of Rin’s stomach. <em> “I was five years old! Let that go, would ya? I’m sure you were a poopy baby back then, too! I bet your maids used to complain at what a stinky babe you were, Sunarin!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Rin met his glare with his languid gaze, but the mask cracked and before Osamu realised what was happening, the boy started laughing. It was a dry, scraping sort of sound but it was joyous and his whole chest vibrated with each intake of breath. Osamu struggled to breathe. His best friend was ethereal, bathed in the last rays of afternoon sun dyed his pale skin olive and lips red and when he turned to Osamu, the boy froze. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Why, you don’t think so? </em>” Rin asked him as they walked home. The sun sets, leaving a few wisps of orange in the otherwise navy heavens. Like this, the delusion was washed away. Rin returned to himself and Osamu  Osamu clasped his hands behind him, they bump against his hipbone in every step, but the steadiness is a nice reminder. </p><p> </p><p>He shook his head. “<em> I just think it’s a lot better than ya think. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Like what? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Like… if Gramma gives me and Tsum peeled peaches even after we fought or…or like when Atsumu broke my wooden katana and I let him live. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s <em>love? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu nodded solemnly, suppressing the laugh that attempted to bubble out of his throat. “<em> Letting him live is the greatest act of sacrifice I have ever made. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Rin grinned at him, disbelief painted all over his features, shoving Osamu’s side just enough to make him waver but not enough to stumble off the path. Osamu protested with a groan, but they were walking side by side in the next second. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> I’m just saying</em>,” Osamu began, “ <em> you know…when you get older and you like someone maybe you’ll change your mind. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>The stare Rin replied with packed more of a punch than any of the blows his friend had dealt him throughout the years. Even now, Osamu couldn’t help but wonder what he meant. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> What if I like someone now? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu snapped his head at his friend. The route home in front of them is long and winded, but it doesn’t stop him from halting his steps. Rin followed shortly until there were just the two of them blanketed by the night. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Just tell them, I guess? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> But what if they don’t like me back?” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Then that’s it. Ya can’t force someone to like you back, Rin. Thought me and Tsum raised you better than that,” </em>huffed Osamu while he placed his arms on his waist.</p><p> </p><p>Suna’s eyes bulged comically wide. “<em> What! I didn’t do anything, Gods. But…what if they didn’t like me back because of some stupid moral shit, I don’t know! Like, they don’t want to like me out of respect because this other person likes me. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> That’s tough. I’d be pretty frustrated, too. I guess it would be a stupid idea cause then no one is happy.” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Right! Thank you, </em> ” Rin sighed. “ <em> We should also head back. It’s getting super late.” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Not my fault you wanted a heart to heart with the Oh So Wise Osamu, </em>” he chirped at Rin’s already retreating figure. His friend flipped him off without turning around and Osamu thought that even mortality couldn’t rip them apart. </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes Osamu really wished there was a way for him to erase himself from history, to change its course or to clamp his mouth shut in certain times. Three years from that evening, he would pray he was swallowed alive by the ground beneath him, shotgunning his way to the Seven Hells on a premium ticket for a millennium of torture. </p><p> </p><p>Atsumu confessed to Rin the week after his birthday. They called each other boyfriends come winter. The soldiers around the Miya Mansion shook their heads and exchanged whispers as the two boys walked past, but shuddered in fear when they saw Osamu’s dark glare trailer after his brother and friend. </p><p> </p><p>He was ecstatic for the two of them. At least now that they were coupled, he wouldn’t have to hear Atsumu’s saccharine rambling all night about the way Rin’s hair is wind-swept in their riding lessons or if they brushed hands at the horse shed that day. </p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t factored in the fact that he would have to mediate their arguments now that Osamu was the only bridge between the two boys. Their first fight as a pair happened just as the frost began to thaw and make way for the spring, the most romantic time of year to be flawed by sharp quips and mean takes across the courtyard. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Just talk to him, please, </em>” Osamu tried to reason. Rin huffed at him. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> If you didn’t come here to spend time in my company then leave.”  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Oh, come on, Rin,” </em> he whined, “ <em> it’s like yer this whole other person now. I just don’t want you guys to keep fighting like this. I want to hang out like the old times!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Suna scoffed, harshly flicking the page of his book. Osamu took a peek and nearly sent himself falling backwards off the patio. There were sketches of vehicles and ships and large tankards with scrawly markings all around it like numbers and some other foreign language. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Woah. Whatcha reading?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em> Some French literature on electronics, nothing of your concern. I was just bored.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Bored! Ya must be the smartest person I know, Sunarin. If I was bored I’d just hit the woods and ride around for a few hours till my legs are stiff.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “I do that, too,” </em> Rin claimed. He finally lifted his nose from the book’s spine and Osamu had to hold back on shivering when Rin’s dark eyes landed on him. “ <em> But I can’t afford to be illiterate. Father’s diplomatic associates are on their way and I can’t mess up. So, please, if you don’t need me just go.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Osamu bit his lip before he took a seat across the table from Rin, browsing through the piles of books around him. Rin’s lips slipped into a frown as he studied his friend who just tried to pick up a Dutch book on mechanics and immediately shut it closed. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Here,” </em> Rin offered as he slid the mountain of books marked with red-dyed parchment across the floor. “ <em> This is all about linguistics. You always liked poetry better.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Osamu accepted the written works with a grin. “<em> No one knows me better than you, Sunarin.” </em></p><p> </p><p>The smile that Rin gives him looked more like a grimace, but Osamu never mentioned it, instead plunging nose-first into the literature until one of the servants called for Rin to dinner with his parents. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Hey, at least give him a note. He’s worried sick,” </em> Osamu said as he was about to exit. </p><p> </p><p>Suna nodded once, eyes weary with hours of reading but smile still bright. He reached out to grasp one of Osamu’s hands and the heat from his palm was blistering. “<em> I will. Thank you, Samu.” </em></p><p> </p><p>The twins were about to turn eighteen the day it happened. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu was on his way home from his daily ride when he saw Atsumu and Rin by the gatehouse, shouting over each other flanked by the Miya samurais awkwardly peering into their conversation. He jumped off his horse, stalking straight to the pair to diffuse the fight but the two of them were adamant that the other was wrong. </p><p> </p><p>And he would always remember the redness in Rin’s eyes that threatened to spill but never quite trusting enough of the fall to be caught and remedied or his shaking hands he hid behind him. Even when they were sitting on the far side of the house, too deep for Atsumu to find them, Rin was drenched in silent agony. </p><p> </p><p>He laced their fingers together and placed them on his lap. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Why do you always fight?” </em>Osamu whispered to space between them. </p><p> </p><p>Rin didn’t speak for some time. The winds howled for him in the meantime as though they, too, were sharing his misery and crying out with him. When he replied, his voice was hoarse and brittle and Osamu felt his bones start to break under the sheer pressure of this new revelation that after a decade of friendship Rin was <em>cracking.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I don’t know what I want anymore. I don’t…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Rin’s free hand trembled in his lap and Osamu watched as the boy hung his head. Osamu wrapped an arm around his shoulder, bringing him closer to his side until he felt Rin’s cheek on the meat of his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Hey, that’s okay. That’s fine, ya know? Sometimes we get mixed up,” </em> crooned Osamu. Rin stayed still then shook his head just enough for Osamu to get his message. “ <em> No?” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Why are you so nice to me?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Osamu furrowed his brows then chuckled. “<em> Cause you’re my friend?” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Yeah, but why are you here consoling me instead of, y’know…your actual brother,” </em>Rin commented pointedly. </p><p> </p><p>The hand around Rin’s shoulder stiffened momentarily. A breeze tickled his neck and the gaps between his fingers resting on Rin’s chest, brushing the fabrics of his hakama but never quite touching the person beneath it, always a step behind, a step too late. He shut his eyes, breathing in the faint scent of sweat, undoubtedly from Rin’s scheduled sparring session with Atsumu and suffered. Rin had always been the centre of his little world since he stepped into it. He was the coolest, the smartest, the funniest person Osamu knew aside from his own twin and he latched on and never quite learned how to let go. </p><p> </p><p>When Atsumu and Rin started dating, Osamu quelled down any complaints he had, stuffing them away until cobwebs collected at the edges of his emotions and until they were rigid enough to feel like facts, unmoving and unchanged over the many changing courses of the moon. It would be fine, he thought, because Rin would still be there next to him each day, always walking with him to Gods know where. Rin melded into an extra limb than a person, a part of Osamu he never thought to separate from the person, never cared enough until now where Rin’s slumped in his arms and cracking all over. </p><p> </p><p>All he feared stared right back at him. </p><p> </p><p>Rin’s eyes were wet with regret and trepidation and fury and they were all aimed at him. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Atsumu has, uh… the maids can look after him. They have been for all our lives, anyway,” </em>slurred Osamu in his rushed reply. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> You can’t just do that.” </em> Rin exhaled shakily at Osamu’s blank stare. “ <em> Stop making excuses. I’m too tired to deal with your bullshit right now.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “That’s very mean.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Rin’s glare rooted him in place and the boy only huffed at his reaction. “<em> I thought, you know… I’ll give you time, maybe you’d change your mind and I kept giving you everything but you never even realised. Just this once, tell me this, in these past three years have you ever even considered me?” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What are you saying?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> ‘“I knew it,'' laughed </em> Rin humorlessly. He sat upright and drew one arm over his eyes as he tipped his head back heavenwards and kept cackling. “ <em> Fuck, it hurts but it’s so funny.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em> Rin, what are you talking about?” </em>Osamu’s voice rose in pitch as the tendrils of his anxieties began to wrap themselves around him, slowly swallowing him in. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> I’m fucking pathetic, that’s what. Can’t believe I wasted five years on a guy and he turned out to be a hypocrite.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Rin, please! Just tell me what it is and I swear I’ll—” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em> You’ll what? Lie again like the last time?” </em> Osamu, rendered speechless, could only observe as Rin spewed his anger onto him. Rin grumbled, “ <em> You said it yourself, remember? You said it was a stupid thing to do, that no one gets to be happy. Don’t you get it? You’re doing it right now.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Osamu fervently racked his brains for memories of hazy days and dampened grass, of dry heaves of laughter and orange sunsets then cursed. There was only one acceptable response that could ever assuage Rin’s temper but the words were trapped in the back of his throat, bitter and too big to dislodge from his trachea and onto his tongue but he forced it out. “<em> Rin, but I don’t like you—” </em></p><p> </p><p>“<em> I’m not an idiot, Osamu,” </em> Rin bit out, eyes frenzied with rage. “ <em> Do I look stupid to you? I know you better than anyone else, you would never do half the things you do for me if I were anyone else. Friends don’t sleep in the same bed together, they don’t hold hands and say the shit you say to me, Samu. Just… Why are you doing this? Can’t you see we would all be better off if you just spoke up?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Osamu shook his head, tears welling in his eyes as he chanted apology after apology. Beside him, Rin was a mirror, head in his wet hands as tracks of sadness seep between the crevices of his fingers and onto the frosty earth below the patio. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> I can’t. I’m sorry. I love you.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Don’t say that.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “I’m sorry, Rin,” </em>Osamu whispered. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Don’t say it, please.” </em></p><p> </p><p>He nodded his head in agreement.<em> “Okay, I won’t,” </em> he promised, but his heart was chanting inside his ribs in a tandem repeat of “I love you” and “I’m sorry” over and over again like a choir inside an empty cathedral, hollow and sorrowful. </p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>They never talked about it again until the night before. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> I think I like Atsumu,” </em>Rin muttered in the middle of their midnight kitchen trip. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu was behind the stove, amber flames riding up below the stone oven and grilling the leftover fish they had for dinner. “<em> Aren’t you guys dating? That’s kinda the point.” </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “No, stupid,” </em> Rin said with a roll of his eyes. He leaned back onto the counter, the moonlight bouncing off his sharp cheekbones and onto the worktop surface next to Osamu where the egg mixture laid. “ <em> I mean, I had that whole thing with my feelings for you and I think I really really like him now.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Wow, uh, congrats?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Thanks. Certainty feels good.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t take the time to process it, didn’t want to. Osamu discarded any rising thoughts by proving the fish with his skewer. <em> “Did you want carrots in the vegetable tempura, by the way?” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yeah. Put them in.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Okay.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>If he had known Rin would be long gone by the following evening, he wouldn’t have let him go home. </p><p> </p><p>But Osamu always had a certain tendency for rue and contrition. </p><p> </p><p>#</p><p> </p><p>He is forcibly dragged out of his stupor by the babel of voices outside of the kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>“We need to get a healer, quickly!” </p><p> </p><p>Atsumu’s voice rings clear in his ears, but instead of pulling him out of his haziness, it only seemed to push him even deeper. By some miracle, he manages to push himself off the counter and stumble out of the kitchen where a good dozen soldiers race past him. He pivots with the motion and can only make out a few bodies sprinting around the back to get to their in-house healer’s quarters. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu lowers his vision when he notices the trail the men leave behind, droplets of blood stain the stones beneath his feet. He pales. </p><p> </p><p>There would only be one reason for Atsumu to return from his date. </p><p> </p><p>His feet are kicking off into a sprint before he knows what he’s doing. His chest is thundering and the only thing he can think of is navy eyes and slender fingers. He makes it into the infirmary just in time for the soldiers to disperse. Sheer panic like white ropes blinds him of anything other than the man lying on the medic cot on the far right of the room. </p><p> </p><p>He almost wishes he didn’t look. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji is all wounds and bare skin. Their healer slashes at his clothes, exposing the angry welts across his back into the open air and Osamu’s stomach rolls, he scuttles over and dry heaves onto the gardening bed. Nothing comes out, but there’s wetness around his mouth. He wipes at it and realises they are tears. </p><p> </p><p>He hears footsteps rounding the corner. </p><p> </p><p>Atsumu drags his feet across the ground until his path is blocked. Osamu towers over him, an inevitable shadow over their prancing. </p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck did you do?” he hissed, jabbing two fingers into the divot in the centre of Atsumu’s chest. His twin jerks with the motion, but stays silent, eyes transfixed on the blood staining his hands. They’re dry, crusting at the edges and falling onto the ground. He seethes, “I said what the fuck did you do, shit head!”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu bristles and shoves the guy back. “I don’t know, alright! We were around the shrine and these rogues came upon us. It wasn’t my fucking fault.”</p><p> </p><p>“He wouldn’t be in there,” Osamu spits out, pointing at the infirmary and the cluster of soldiers onlooking Keiji’s wounded body, “if you hadn’t taken him up there like a fucking idiot. You know the forests are off-limits for a fucking reason. Please tell me you at least brought your sword.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, fucking sue me! I wanted to take him to someplace nice, not some shanty restaurant in the marketplace,” Atsumu yelled. Osamu stares blankly at him and Atsumu takes this time to fold his arms over his chest and jut his chin out. “That’s right. I know you and him sneak around behind my fucking back like teenagers. I know all about your pathetic little crush on <em> my </em>fiancè.”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu grinds his teeth, clenching and unclenching his fist beside him. He’s aware that they’re gaining a few onlookers now, but he can’t stop the verbal vomit coming to rip him from the inside out. It’s violent and ugly, the way it trips over his tongue and spits on his brother’s face, but Atsumu’s reply is even uglier, making the monstrosity in his words like child play. </p><p> </p><p>“At least Keiji likes me, that’s more than what he can say for you,” snapped Osamu. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah?” Atsumu challenges with a scowl. “You’re such a fucking loser that you’re still hung up on the fact that Rin chose me over you. Move on, Samu, he died two years ago.”</p><p> </p><p>He snaps. </p><p> </p><p>The punch lands square on Atsumu’s chin, tipping him backwards, and Osamu uses this momentum to kick his hips. It sends the young heir flying a good two metres back, landing on his ass and barely recovering when Osamu pounces on him, uses his full body weight to smack into his brother before blocking the man’s airways with his forearm pushing down on Atsumu’s neck. </p><p> </p><p>“Fucking apologise,” Osamu roared, “take it back right now!” </p><p> </p><p>Atsumu gargled then spat at him, the saliva slicking down Osamu’s chin in a wet gush. The heir smirked, “Fuck you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” Osamu sighed then grabbed Atsumu by his hair and smashed the back of his neck into the pebbles littering the pathway. The man groaned in pain, weakly trying to scurry away but to no avail, because Osamu rains a punch next, an uppercut to the jaw, a hook to his cheek, another uppercut and then a surprising dig with his elbow. </p><p> </p><p>Atsumu’s nose is bloodied by the time a samurai manages to pull Osamu off him. The young man wrestles against the restraint but surrenders when he realises that another guard was taking his other side until he was flanked by a warrior at each side. Even he isn’t cocky enough to think he could take on two Miya warriors by himself. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu slumps in their arms, mind racing as the bulky men drag him away from the infirmary and Keiji. They let him go when they’re by the entrance to his quarters. He doesn’t dare acknowledge them, heads straight for his room and slides the door shut behind him and crumbles apart.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Midnight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful friend Iris. <a>Please check out the AMAZING art she drew for this chapter here!</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He remembers the sharp slice and the hot pain that clawed his back. Keiji sees the flash of panic the moment Atsumu catches him and hoists him up, his arm is lodged at the space between two cuts and Keiji cries in pain every time he is jostled. He can still hear Atsumu’s stammering, his attempt to calm the both of them down, but most of all he remembers lifting his head to the blue sky above him, watching the herd of clouds that have stopped momentarily to observe the attack and thinks he can make out the softest of calls to his name. </p><p> </p><p>Beyond this, all he remembers is darkness. </p><p> </p><p>He wakes in a cold sweat. </p><p> </p><p>There is a flurry of bodies all around him. They buzz and shout but Keiji’s ears can only discern them as white noise. He’s on his stomach and he catches sight of their rushing feet, trying to zero in on a pair before forcibly closing his eyes at the searing pain in the back of his head. His head turns leaden and he rests against the cool surface of the cot. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Was he safe? Where was he? Who brought him here? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His eyelids flutter wearily. </p><p> </p><p>“Kei, Keiji. Are you awake?”</p><p> </p><p>The voice. He knows that voice. It’s the same voice that scolded him when he was six and took the role of hiding too seriously, keeping quiet between the closet panels even as a typhoon hails outside and his brothers’ yelling becomes increasingly worried. Now, too, the shrillness is evident in his voice, masked only by the staggered breaths he inhales in the middle of a sentence.</p><p> </p><p>“Keiji?” Again. Deep, demanding, Hajime. </p><p> </p><p>Strength is scarce but he pulls at every branch he can get his hands on within himself and cranes his head to face the other side. The movement tugs at his back muscles and he shouts in pain. His brother’s face contorts at the sound, hands moving to hover around him but they fall back, they always do. Keiji takes a moment to really focus his eyes and looks over to the man on the left. There are bags under his eyes, darker than the night Keiji met him. Hajime is no better beside him. A shadow of a moustache lies above his cracking lips and his eyes are distant, faraway but somehow still present enough to grab a hold of Keiji through gaze alone. </p><p> </p><p>“What happened?” he asked. </p><p> </p><p>“You got slashed, that’s what happened.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tooru,” Hajime sighs into his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. Keiji wonders how long the two of them have been here, standing over him. “Not now.”</p><p> </p><p>Tooru shrugs. “I’m only saying. That fuck wad should’ve brought a blade at the very least if he planned on taking you to the shrine. Seriously, is he fucking stupid?”</p><p> </p><p>Hajime still has his nose between his fingers, head hanged and chin digging into his chest. Keiji sees the way Tooru slides his gaze over to Hajime and the silent defeat in the way he sighs, pivoting around and walking out of the room. Only when he’s out of earshot does Hajime finally lift his head to face him. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry about him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” mutters Keiji from the cot. “But why is he here?”</p><p> </p><p>They built the house not too far from the shrine, it acted as a waypoint for most of their endeavours and stays. Hajime and Tooru were collecting firewood by the stream near the temple when they heard Keiji’s yell reverberate through the forest. Without thinking twice, Hajime bolted towards the sound and Tooru was hot on his heels, swords drawn and ready to pounce when they round the entrance. </p><p> </p><p>“Three rouges, big as bears,” Hajime recalls, eyes wide, “he took one down with his bare hands and tried to bolt.”</p><p> </p><p>Tooru and Hajime finished the pair of ronin in haste and managed to catch sight of Atsumu retreating, shouting after him. The three of them tag-teamed carrying Keiji’s unconscious body to the mansion on foot. </p><p> </p><p>“I really thought I lost you there.” There is anguish in his words, coated thickly in the way he slurs his speech and looks away. Something heavy lodges itself in Keiji’s throat and he struggles to speak around it but Hajime beats him to it. He ruffles the top of Keiji’s hair, a rare sweet smile on his tired face. “I’m glad you’re okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me too.”</p><p> </p><p>Hajime tells him it has been a good twelve hours since it happened and that it is reaching midnight soon, if not already. He can’t see any windows in the room or an opening. Hajime tries to make him sit upright but the pain is beyond anything Keiji can handle. He yelps at the ache and tries to find a position up right where he’s not constantly in pain, but there is none. Every fidget stretches the novel stitches in his back. </p><p> </p><p>He also discovers that he has been unrobed while unconscious for his treatment. The wintry chill soothes the cuts running down his back, but is poor for general body upkeep so he accepts Hajime’s haori. It’s big enough that it hangs off his shoulders and doesn’t touch his back. </p><p> </p><p>They get him to his feet and Hajime takes his hand to guide him outside the infirmary through the double door. “The healer’s tending to something else,” Hajime explains the absence, not that Keiji was at all interested in the whereabouts of the medic. </p><p> </p><p>They make it out and Keiji breathes in the cool air, letting out a sigh of relief. </p><p> </p><p>“Bold.” They look to the side and find Tooru leaning against the building’s wooden frame. He eyes the haori around Keiji’s shoulders and sighs. “You’re not supposed to wear anything if you got cut. It’ll irritate the skin.”</p><p> </p><p>Hajime jumps to his defence with a click of his tongue. “It’s big enough. You didn’t go home?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re still here.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s such a simple truth, a fact that Hajime doesn’t even blink twice at but one that makes Keiji ache with a fresh coat of pain of all the things he can’t have. </p><p> </p><p>Tooru rakes his eyes away from Hajime and settles on Keiji. It’s electrifying. “That kid came by. Not the stupid one, but looks uncannily alike. Twins, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>“Osamu?” The name spills out of his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t catch his name. He saw me at the door and walked around. If I timed it right, he’ll be here in a few seconds.”</p><p> </p><p>Seconds trickle past them like water and true to his word, Osamu rounds the corner of the East wing and snaps his head up when he sees Keiji’s shadow. </p><p> </p><p>“Keiji,” he says. <em> Ke-i-ji.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Keiji smiles. “Lord Osamu.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re, uh. You’re awake.”</p><p> </p><p>“It seems so,” Keiji hums with a nod. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu’s hand curls into a fist and he stretches his fingers till they are taut. “That’s great.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Tooru claps his hands and the two men snap their heads to him. “Hajime, let’s go home. We’ll tell your family tomorrow and Keiji’s in good hands.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh…only if Keiji is okay with it.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji meets Hajime’s gaze with a nod. “Yes, please, get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright,” Hajime yields reluctantly, letting Keiji’s arm go little by little so he’d have time to adjust. “No funny business, you two.” Osamu chokes on a cough and Keiji’s smile slips into a scowl. He makes a move to swat Hajime’s side but his brother steps around him easily to join Tooru’s side. “I’m serious. I’ll come to get you first thing tomorrow, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji nods again and observes as Tooru pulls Hajime away. </p><p> </p><p>And then they’re alone. </p><p> </p><p>He lifts his gaze into those eyes inset with azurite, darker than nightshade all around them. “Osamu,” he tests the name on his tongue like a game. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu closes the distance between them in five short steps. It’s dizzying to be this close to him. His warm huffs fan the bottom of Keiji’s chin. The specks of stars and the half-moon bask them in cosmic light. It drenches them in silver and makes their eyes glow sapphire and spinel. </p><p> </p><p>His hands are everywhere but nowhere—hovering but never touching him and Keiji sighs and walks into Osamu’s outstretched arms, resting his head on the other man’s shoulder. He doesn’t rope his arms around Osamu’s waist, knows he’s pushing his limits just by staying on his feet. The young lord doesn’t make a move to wrap his arms around Keiji, either.</p><p> </p><p>He can hear Osamu’s shuddery breath in his ear, feels it tickle the caverns of his lobe and hooks his chin above the man’s shoulder. There’s a murmur pressed onto his neck and Keiji frowns, humming in question. </p><p> </p><p>“Please don’t marry him.” Keiji moves to step away but Osamu catches him by his shoulder and presses him to his chest. “I’m not—No poems, no jokes. Please don’t marry him.”</p><p> </p><p>Equally broken, Keiji echoes the question he asked the last time they spoke to each other. “Why?”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu steps away but doesn’t quite meet his gaze until he hears Keiji’s grunt of annoyance. His lips twist before they part to speak and Keiji worries he might miss it, can’t hear anything aside from the erratic beating of his heart. </p><p> </p><p>“Why are you so adamant about marrying him? Do you really think you’re worth so little?”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji feels himself break in pieces and then as a whole. He doesn’t realise tears are running down his cheeks until Osamu moves to wipe them away, resting his palm below Keiji’s cheekbone. He leans into the warmth and squeezes his eyes shut, more tears. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you think I want to be in this position?”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu furrows his brows and shakes his head, “You know what, yes! With the way you’re so fixated on it, I think you’re just thrilled to marry my brother. I don’t understand why you don’t just quit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Quit what?” Keiji’s seething and hot tears rush down his face. “I have no choice! I can’t quit because it’s not a <em> hobby! </em> I’m settling debt, not like you would know how that feels. And, yeah, newsflash! My mother <em>died</em>, Osamu. I’m so sorry I’m not prancing around and celebrating with you right now.” </p><p> </p><p>He’s choking on sobs, no longer bothering with wiping the tracks of his anguish away, lets them soak into his skin. They are crystalline in the moonlight, just like they had been on his mother’s face that evening. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu grunts in frustration. “It’s not <em>your </em>debt to settle. Your father is a grown adult who knows how to take care of his own problems, Keiji. Let him be the parent.”</p><p> </p><p>“My father is a useless scumbag who feeds on his own hubris,” Keiji laughs darkly. “The only thing he knows how to do is to save his own ass.”</p><p> </p><p>“But he’s your parent—”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji is so weary. The gashes down his back had started to itch and they stretch uncomfortably with each exasperated sigh he lets out. The night’s coolness does little to diminish his temper. He spits the next few sentences out before he can even process what was happening. </p><p> </p><p>“Look, I know that you haven’t had a parent since you were a child but you should really dispel this fantastical depiction of parents in your head because it’s idiotic.” Keiji freezes but makes no move to take back his words. Some people say that drunk babbles are an honest man’s truth. Keiji was never fond of alcohol, but the ire is intoxicating. It burns under his skin and boils his blood. </p><p> </p><p>Osamu jumps to rebut, seemingly unperturbed by the jab. “Sure, yeah, I watched my father get murdered in front of me when I was five and my mother died at birth but at least I know when to fucking walk away.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s because all you ever do <em>is </em>walk away! You never confront things as they are like how you never told your own brother how your father died! And I know something must’ve happened between you and that boy, that’s why you left home last year!”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Osamu hisses. “You don’t know jack-shit, Keiji.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji scoffs, “You don’t know me either! Why do you get to run around telling me what to do and lose your temper the second I turn the tables? Just stop caring, <em> sire. </em>I promise it’ll ease your burden.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“And why not?” Keiji yells. </p><p> </p><p>“Because I like you!”</p><p> </p><p>For a long while, he could only make out his harsh pantings in the silence. He can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the man in front of him. Osamu’s head is hanged and Keiji can see the white puff of breath that he sighs out. </p><p> </p><p>“I like you,” Osamu whispers, “And I know that Atsumu looks at you and sees someone who died two years ago. That’s the only reason he even agreed to this stupid wedding, you know? He thinks this is some sick way of making reparations. Like you’re some incarnate…</p><p> </p><p>But you’re not. You’re Keiji and you’re brilliant independently. You’re talented and fiercely loyal to your family and you like poetry and think love is tedious. You love food more than anything else in the world…”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not true,” Keiji murmurs, throat scratchy.</p><p> </p><p>Osamu nods. “Right. You love food <em> nearly </em>as much as you love your family.” He continues only when he sees the corners of Keiji’s mouth twitch. “You’re handsome and polite and cheeky when you want to be. I like you. I like you so much but I’m not asking you to not marry him because I like you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m asking you not to marry him because you would never be happy. Not in a year, not in five, not in twenty.”</p><p> </p><p>“I made a promise,” Keiji starts, eyes welling before he even spoke. “All my brothers… they take after my dad and when my mum left it felt like I was her or like I had to be her, somehow. And she was always on about protecting each other.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can protect each other without sacrificing yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t sacrifice the greatest show of love?” asks Keiji with a laugh. He looks up when Osamu doesn’t reply. The man in front of him is desolate and when he places his arms around Keiji’s neck, he holds him like water. </p><p> </p><p>“The greatest grief is felt by those left by the sacrificed.” Osamu pulls away only to knock their foreheads together. “Your brothers wouldn’t like knowing you lived in despair. How will you look after them if you’re kept in the capital like the other clan head wives are?”</p><p> </p><p>“Even if I chose to run away with my brothers, we’ll always be on the run. I can’t do that to Hajime he has…a life he’s building. We’ll always be hunted for our outstanding debt.”</p><p> </p><p>“We can take care of that.”</p><p> </p><p>“How?” Keiji’s voice sounds foreign even to himself. He’s no longer asking, he’s pleading. “How? Tell me how and I’ll choose you, I’ll choose… happiness.” Osamu can only stare at him. Keiji tries and fails to not let the disappointment crush him. He lets a crooked smile slide on his face. “I’m sorry,” Keiji says before he turns around and walks back inside the infirmary. </p><p> </p><p>He is all out of tears, but when he lies back on the cot, the pain in his chest is so severe that he doesn't sleep for a long while.  </p><p> </p><p># </p><p> </p><p>Outside, Osamu can hardly breathe. He stumbles back to his quarters and waves for a guard to come over. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, sir?” </p><p> </p><p>“My carriage for tomorrow. Is it prepared?”</p><p> </p><p>The guard’s brows shoot up. “But, sir, you told us to cancel that order this afternoon.”</p><p> </p><p>Rejection like tar bubbles in his chest. Osamu shakes his head. </p><p> </p><p>“I changed my mind.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Liberation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sleep does not come easy. He tosses and turns until he is steeped in agitation that blocks his ears and fills his mouth with cotton. His skin is silver in the darkness, a permanent coat to remind him of the ghost of a touch he pushed away. Even in solitude, he is not alone. </p><p> </p><p>The night surrounds him in its cold embrace, wrapping its icy fingers around his wrists and neck even as he brings his hands to his abdomen where warmth used to be in abundance, the cold replicates. The residual heat from the fireplace has long since dissipated and he counts, squinting at the tray of ash, each flying cinder blown by the breeze. They glimmer like stars in moonshine. He doesn’t make it past fifty when the line of his gaze diverts elsewhere. From boredom or tiredness, he isn’t sure. The ache in his bones is heaviest when the first clouds of dawn creep up the sky but even then he doesn’t meet the mercy of sleep. </p><p> </p><p>A maid comes in to change his sheets at six. He stands to the side while she does and bows politely when she leaves. The groundsmen open up the clinic doors not long after that, one of them smiles at him and Keiji can only nod back. He can hardly stand up and has to hold on to the walls to be on his feet, but he cannot stay in that room for a second longer. </p><p> </p><p>Outside, Atsumu is waiting. </p><p> </p><p>He has thin strips of bandage on his right cheek and a bruised left eye. He frowns when their eyes catch. </p><p> </p><p>“Keiji,” he breathes, smoke blowing between his lips, “you’re not supposed to be walking.” He is rushing towards Keiji now, arms open to catch the dryness of his underarm. There is only frost when they touch. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t come close. Keiji shakes his head. “I’ll be alright. Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine. Listen, I’m really sorry about yesterday.”</p><p> </p><p>“Neither of us saw it coming,” Keiji says easily, already forgiving before Atsumu could plead. But the young lord wants none of it, shakes his head fervently at Keiji’s dismissal. </p><p> </p><p>“No, not that,” Atsumu starts. He brings both arms to his chest, crossing them as he carefully mulls his speech over. The sun rays begin seeping through the morning clouds, striking the path they are on like gold and douses Atsumu’s amber eyes into aureate. “I’m sorry for everything. I shouldn’t have tried to force you into returning my affections. I was wrong, please accept my apologies.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a single tear that races down the young lord’s cheek and Keiji, in a rare moment of candour, reaches out to wipe it away. He smiles at Atsumu. “I forgive you, Atsumu-san.”</p><p> </p><p>“And for such injuries…Keiji, I hereby absolve you from your outstanding debts to the Miya lordships.” </p><p> </p><p>Keiji baulks. “Atsumu-san, I could never accept this,” he protests, tries to peel away the haori around his shoulders to reveal the strips of bandage that wraps all around him from his torso to his neck. Atsumu shuts his eyes and looks away. </p><p> </p><p>“I used to love someone a lot more than he loved me. At least, that’s what I used to think.” Atsumu’s confession rings hollow between the pair. He hangs his head with a deep sigh. “We were never fair to each other,” he mutters then moves to wipe his eyes as he laughs, the sound lodges something in his throat and he spends a moment to clear it. When he lifts his gaze to meet Keiji’s eyes, they are wet with truth and his smile is the most gentle thing Keiji has ever seen. “So, let me do this for you at least. And for my brother. It is only fair.”</p><p> </p><p>Speechless, Keiji lets his feet drag him until he’s chest to chest with the young lord and envelops the man in a bone-crushing hug. He recalls Osamu’s words from the night before, can still taste the bitterness in his memories and the pain these twins must have endured for the past few years. He squeezes Atsumu’s shoulders with everything he can’t say and speaks nothing of it when the man starts to shake. </p><p> </p><p>He is about to pull away when Atsumu jerks out of his arms at a shrill screech. </p><p> </p><p>“Gramma,” he manages to say before sprinting in the voice’s direction. Keiji jogs behind him, mindful of the wounds opening down his back but too concerned to slow down. </p><p> </p><p>They find the Miya monarch by the front entrance of the mansion, weeping into her hands. It is such a raw display of hurt that Keiji thinks better of following Atsumu and stays behind by the circle of groundsmen who have paused their work to check in on the monarch. Her frail shoulders are brittle to touch, they crumple under Atsumu’s arm who attempts to pry away her fingers from her face. </p><p> </p><p>She wails like a child. “Osamu,” the monarch cries, “Osamu’s gone.”</p><p> </p><p>There is a torn corner of parchment in her hands, it is wrinkled from the strain of her grip but Atsumu manages to take it away without tearing. He skims the letter and curses when he finishes, eyes flitting up to find something until they land on Keiji. Without so much as an order, Keiji feels his feet begin to walk towards the young lord and the monarch. Atsumu hands the letter to him when he is close enough. </p><p> </p><p>It reads: <em> Gramma, Atsumu, I fear that I must cut my visit short. There are things needing tending back in the Capital. I will write to you when I arrive. Thank you for your hospitality, Samu.  </em></p><p> </p><p>His heart is thundering in his chest as he zeroes in on the writing. Only a second ago, Osamu’s lingering presence is phantom steps in the spaces he stands, still around but never quite seen. Now that his absence is pronounced, it carves itself into Keiji, moulding agitation into sharp, hot dread. </p><p> </p><p>The wind picks up and lifts the corner of the parchment, it is ragged from where Osamu must have torn it in haste, and by some miracle, Keiji’s keen sight sees the ink stains. He flips it over.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Miss Okazaki knows where it is. Ask her for me and she will bring it to you. Your friend, Osamu.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What is he talking about?” Keiji mutters. Atsumu worries his lip before he gets the monarch’s lady in waiting to substitute for him, she rubs the lady’s back but doesn’t encase her in the familial love Atsumu possesses. </p><p> </p><p>The young lord walks up to him and peers over his shoulder before he snaps his head up. “Okazaki, where is she? Someone bring her here, now!”</p><p> </p><p>The maids and groundsmen are ready to flee but amidst their crowd, a young voice calls out, “I’m here, sir!” </p><p> </p><p>She’s a small thing, no older than Tobio and shorter than he. She wears the same pale white garb as the rest of the maids, but she wears the same pendant the monarch’s lady in waiting adorns below her collar. He knows from his lessons that it is the mark of the Miya landlords’ claim. All those who work privately with the landlords are given a pendant to show their loyalty to their masters. She is no different. Her hair is slicked neatly into a bun and she bows before the young lord before thrusting a book at him. </p><p> </p><p>“Lord Osamu wishes me to give this to you, sir.”</p><p> </p><p>There is a collective round of hushed gasps. It takes a moment for Keiji to realise that the girl is addressing him and not Atsumu. He daren’t move and the girl lifts her head, their eyes meet and she thrusts the book at him again.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s for you,” Atsumu murmurs. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji eyes him before he picks the book up from the girl’s hands. It falls open in his palms and the first page has a tear at the bottom left corner. When Keiji lifts the note into it, it fits perfectly. The page itself is malformed from the weight of wet ink it absorbed all that time ago. He runs his fingers across the words and feels his chest plummet to his feet as he reads the verse before him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> At my house </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I sowed and nurtured cockscomb </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It withered, yet </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No wiser, once again </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’ll sow, I feel  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There are words scribbled all along the margins and the open spaces around it. Annotating the tanka poetry, the metaphors, and the imagery. The date at the top of the page reads September, one of the earlier days and Keiji pictures the cavalry and the red dragon spanning the young lord’s abdomen. There’s a fat circle around the last line, he follows the line drawn into its side and lands at a small paragraph, reading ‘<em> Will I be better this time </em>?’ Below it, there is a tiniest of confessions in four words, no more. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He is so beautiful.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Atsumu,” the monarch croaks and beckons him close. He sends a look to Keiji but doesn’t wait for his reply to move. Falling to one knee on the steps, he takes his grandmother’s hand in his and hums in question. “You must get him to come back. The Capital is on the brink of civil unrest. They’ll never let him come back.”</p><p> </p><p>“He won’t listen to me. He didn’t, last time.”</p><p> </p><p>“You must!”</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu shakes his head and rubs the monarch’s hand in his. “There is another way.”</p><p> </p><p>The monarch rubs at her eyes before she lifts her head and their gazes catch. She looks him down and he feels months younger, appearing before her like this. Moments pass and Keiji begins to lower his head, knowing that this much is too much. His heart is still burning from the words and he runs his thumb over them again and again. </p><p> </p><p>“Boy,” she calls. It’s like a slap across his face. “You look at me when I talk to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Akaashi Keiji.”</p><p> </p><p>“What was that?”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji lifts his head. “Akaashi Keiji, ma’am, my name.”</p><p> </p><p>The lady frowns but it doesn’t quite reach her usual scowl. She is lacking herself and a grandchild. She rubs at her temple, thinning her lips into a straight line before she gives him the sharpest of nods. “Very well, Akaashi Keiji, my grandson seems to believe that you are capable of such a feat. Pray, tell why that is.”</p><p> </p><p>“I care deeply for your grandson, ma’am,” Keiji says without skipping a beat. “I have reasons to believe that this feeling is mutual.”</p><p> </p><p>He feels the dozens of eyes sear his back like whips, condemning him for such an act of faux infidelity when he has promised himself to the Miya heir. The monarch’s eyes are dull but they scrutinise him even then. “How so? Osamu is a man of class and you have sold yourself to Atsumu. You have no right to feel and no right to choose.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve absolved him from debt,” Atsumu cuts in. The monarch is ready to protest but the young lord speaks in haste, announcing his protest for the court to see. “He is free from debt and should Akaashi Keiji return with my brother, you,” he says looking pointedly to the woman beside him, “will grant him full amnesty. No more debts, no more weddings, no more ownership. He will be free to go, do you agree?”</p><p> </p><p>The monarch closes her eyes and rubs at her temple before she sighs in defeat, “ Bring him back and I shall cut your ties.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji, feeling lighter than he has in the past year, bows so deeply that he is sure his wounds have begun to bleed anew. It doesn’t stop the smile crawling on his face. </p><p> </p><p>“I will, ma’am,” he states before he turns to leave. </p><p> </p><p>“Akaashi,” she calls again. Keiji halts his step and looks at her. She waves an arm at the groundsmen and they begin to scuttle away at the silent order. Before him, they roll in a horse-pulled carriage. It neighs in its reins and the maids rush to open the door for him. Over the hustle, the monarch nods to him. “Take the carriage.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji mounts the coach carefully, book in hand, and sticks his head out to wave at Atsumu who responds with a nod and a small curve of his lips. The monarch’s eyes, black and churning, follow him until they disappear behind the gatehouse. </p><p> </p><p># </p><p> </p><p>The journey is a race. The roads are vastly empty leading to the Capital this early in the morning and it only spurs the coachman further. The horse sprints and slows only on stone-lined paths (<em> their hooves hurt, </em>the coachman shouts at him) and Keiji can hardly sit still. </p><p> </p><p>He runs his fingers across the spine of the book and flicks open a random page then another until the pads of his fingers are tinted grey from the dried ink he brushes over and over again. There is one page he doesn’t read, the last of the anthropology stopping halfway through the book and leaving the rest of its pages thin and blank from Osamu’s hands. He eyes the road ahead, it stretches for miles before he sees its end and thinks to hell with it. </p><p> </p><p>The book is pliant under his touch and he thinks that Osamu was too, once. </p><p> </p><p>This page, unlike the rest, is pitch black in the hurried etches inscribed within it. It lingers at the edge of the paper and waits to spill over, reaching out to this third dimension to escape its confines, the bleeding heart Osamu left him. A haggard breath tears itself out of Keiji. These writings are indiscernible, they mount each other and cross all over with no end in sight. He doesn’t know where one sentence begins or where it ends, it’s continuous speech, a civil war of truth, a flurry of whispers and candid openness too grand to be seen by the naked eye, but he tries. </p><p> </p><p>He picks apart the clues Osamu leaves him, tracks of <em> I think </em> and <em> I feel </em> scattered about and dispels all those starting with <em> I don’t </em> . It’s a mess of thoughts with no recorded date, but if he squints and waits long enough, the verses take shape before him. They are buried beneath a jumble of letters and thick sashes of black ink, but they are there, these phrases that have loitered the page longer than the rest of these <em> insecurities </em>, with ink greyer than the clouds soaring outside. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Next to me, you still,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As dust dances off your fingers,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> in enlightenment. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You turn, delighted, and I  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Drown in oceans of navy.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The Tanka verse is scratched off, but there is one similar below it that shares the same fate. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If Spring ever comes </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And the blue jays start singing,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Will you take my hand </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And lead me down broken trails </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So that we, too, can blossom?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Frantically, he searches for the next and the next until he can count each verse on both hands. <em> Sixteen </em>, Osamu had written him sixteen poems. Keiji breathes into his palm, thinks he can feel the sparks that burn inside his chest in the exhale he lets out. When had discord caught up to them? When had they let the thralls of entropy muddle them so? It has a vice grip on their arms, even this far apart, Keiji can recognise Osamu anywhere—in his laugh, by the weight of his touch, in the heat that comes off him, through the ebb in his chest that persists, and in writing.</p><p> </p><p>He’s jostled in the carriage when the horse begins to speed down the road and Keiji sticks his head out the window. The treelines are a blur in this speed, a mesh of green and browns. He snaps his gaze forwards, hears the accompanying crackle of hooves on dirt and hopes.  </p><p> </p><p>“That’s the young lord!” screams the coachman over the sound of clacking hooves on dirt. The horse whinnies and Keiji sees him, sealed in the back of the cart, head lolling to the side with each drag. “Stop, stop the car!” </p><p> </p><p>They manage to close their distance, but Osamu’s coach does not slow. Keiji worries his lip, watches the ground fly past below him. They can’t go any faster or they’re bound to crash into Osamu’s cart. Keiji taps the coachman and signals for him to pull in so that they will ride alongside and he gives Keiji a thumbs up before pulling on the leather reins. Keiji sways in motion, but he holds on until he can see Osamu across. </p><p> </p><p>“Stop the car!” he bellows. Osamu jerks in his seat and snaps his head towards him, eyes bulging when they catch. “Open your door!”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s dangerous!”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji shouts over his protest, “Open it!” </p><p> </p><p>Osamu goes to open the door, hastily turning away as it bangs open against the side of the still-running carriage. Keiji clutches the book in one hand and sends his door swinging. Osamu’s grey eyes pinch at the sides. Keiji takes one good look at the distance between their carriages and leaps. </p><p> </p><p>He lands on his knees with both of Osamu’s arms around him, one lifting him off his feet and the other steadying his stance. His face crumples at the pain that licks up his back, heaving breaths to calm the fury down. Osamu rushes to close his door before helping Keiji sit beside him. When the carriage slows to a stroll, he sighs and turns to Keiji, a deep frown marring his face. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>“I needed to see you,” Keiji insisted when the pain dulls to a throb. He places the notebook in Osamu’s lap. “Here. Take it.”</p><p> </p><p>“That was for you. I failed, remember? I couldn’t persuade you so I lent you my personal anthropology.” Osamu doesn’t look at him as he recalls their bet. He’s devoid of emotion, only ever letting out the softest of sighs or the surrendering pauses in his speech. It pisses Keiji off. “As we agreed.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji shakes his head, pushes the book into the young lord’s limp hands. “No, you haven’t. Stop saying that. Can we please stop the car?” </p><p> </p><p>The coachman doesn’t make a move to acknowledge Keiji’s plea but halts the horse when Osamu eventually raps his knuckle against the side of the carriage. Keiji lets his shoulders sag in relief, exhaling into his palms when he feels them stop. “You can’t go,” Keiji mutters. “Don’t leave.”</p><p> </p><p>“How?” Osamu’s voice cracks as he asks. “How do you expect me to stay, Keiji?”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji gulps, he doesn’t dare lift his head until Osamu continues. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m entitled to my own decisions, too, just like how you are entitled to do as you please whether that be choosing yourself or throwing yourself away in some <em> marriage </em>for a debt that isn’t even yours to repay—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not getting married,” Keiji says. Osamu blinks, clouds of thunderous grey disappearing for a heartbeat before they return to their posts where they stare into Keiji’s soul. He clears his throat, straightening out the sleeves of his kimono. “Atsumu-san and your grandmother agreed to let me go if I get you back.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence passes them. Then, Osamu flits his gaze down and slumps. “Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, not—I didn’t come here for that,” rushes Keiji, inching forwards in his seat to capture the man’s gaze once more. They escape him and Keiji grunts in frustration. Without thinking, he wraps his cool fingers around the young lord’s warm wrist. “I’d come here even if it meant I still had to marry Atsumu-san or work as a servant, even if it meant I wasn’t free. I’d still come here.”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu stares at their hands on his lap and then the book atop they rest. “So, what does that mean?”</p><p> </p><p>There is nothing for a moment aside from Keiji’s heavy breathing and the distant chirps from the morning birds outside. Keiji rubs his thumb in a slow circle around the meat of Osamu’s palm, steadying himself more than anything else, and expels it all. The truth he had tried so hard to suffocate and bury but remained attached to him like a limb, weighing him down and plaguing him for weeks. He lets go. </p><p> </p><p>“It means I like you, Osamu-san.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji holds his breath, tentative even about the tiniest movement of his limbs—he is a bundle of frayed axons, short-circuiting only to regrow into a knot. Osamu blinks, mouth parting ever so slightly, but he doesn’t make a sound. Flames, sweltering and hot, flicker beneath his skin when the man leans closer. His eyes fly down to Keiji’s parted mouth then back to his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Storms on torrential seas, electrifying beyond reason, pulling him in like the call of sirens to wayward ships. He inhales sharply, fisting his fingers into his kimono to stop them from trembling. Their lips brush and Keiji melts. </p><p> </p><p>“Can I kiss you?” whispers Osamu onto his lips. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji nods once. “Please.”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu crashes his lips onto Keiji’s. He circles an arm around Keiji’s waist and pulls him closer, hands splayed across the small of his back, never quite touching the angry stripes down his backside. Heat rises to Keiji’s chest and he parts his lips, letting Osamu wash over him in waves of warmth. It unfurls him, makes him curl his fingers into a fist and they struggle to pick a place to rest until Osamu reaches one hand to guide him to his jaw. </p><p> </p><p>They part only to shift around before Osamu is claiming his lips again. It strikes a chord in his core, twisting his insides until they are nothing but black holes weakening him from the inside out. Keiji whimpers when Osamu slides his tongue against his bottom lip. He welcomes him home, body reacting instinctively at Osamu’s approving grunt. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji stuns himself with the moan that slips past his mouth. The sound reverberates throughout the carriage and he flushes scarlet at the thought of the coachmen outside. Osamu frees him from his thoughts with a heated kiss, tenderly guiding his back into the plush cushioning and parts his legs to slide closer. </p><p> </p><p>He lets the man play him as though he is an instrument carved for this man and this man, only. Osamu draws mewls and sighs out of him like conversation. He nips along his throat, suckling on the breastbone peeking out of his kimono, a sliver of skin free from the bandage and has Keiji seeing white. The ache between his legs throb and Osamu’s hand resting on his waist does little to relieve him. He taps Osamu’s shoulder and breathes only when they part. </p><p> </p><p>“I like you, too,” Osamu murmurs when he pulls away, now nosing the line below Keiji’s jaw and littering pecks in the casted shadows. “Just so you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji hums in question, tilts his head back to give Osamu room. Osamu laps at his neck and Keiji spreads his fingers over the meat of his shoulder, pulling him in as close as the universe in all its disorder let them be. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah? Enough to write sixteen verses about me? Ack!” he yelps when Osamu bites down on the thick tendon that runs down his neck. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” sighs Osamu in defeat. He moves back and brushes his lips against Keiji’s, plucking the strings of need until he nears brain death. He plants a soft kiss on his mouth, chaste and pure unlike their heated exchange moments prior. “Enough to write... I shouldn’t have given this to you. You know what? I think I’ll just throw it away.”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji dives for the book before Osamu could even think about reaching for it. He hugs the notebook to his chest. “Don’t you dare. I want to frame it.”</p><p> </p><p>The man’s grey eyes roll, but his face is tender when he smiles. “If that’s what you want,” he says. </p><p> </p><p>“It is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then so be it,” he agrees easily, “now, shall we head home?”</p><p> </p><p>Keiji eyes the grasslands outside and peeks at the viewing hole between the coachman and the cart to find the station empty. He sees the two men off to the side, chatting amicably as though they were on a break and does little to dampen the flames of amber engulfing his core, arson in daylight. He paws at Osamu’s shoulder and the man obediently leans back. “Yes, or… we can finish what we started and <em> then </em>get back.”</p><p> </p><p>“While I am very much on board, I worry that would not be in the best interest for you considering your injuries,” Osamu mutters. </p><p> </p><p>Keiji rolls his eyes. He grabs the young lord’s hand and presses it against his back, just above the bandage. “I’ll be fine,” he assures and moves to kiss the man. Osamu sighs into his lips and wraps both of his arms around him. Keiji curls into the embrace and presses a kiss on the thick of his neck. “I’m fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Osamu meets his eyes and carefully guides Keiji down till he lies on his back against the seating. Osamu plants a kiss on his temple and whispers, “Anything you want.”</p><p> </p><p>The winter chill leaves whispers on his skin where Osamu had left trails of pecks and handprints, shielding them from the breeze collecting outside, singing for all of Kamaeko to hear. He is gold in Osamu’s fingers, malleable and shining brightness he has never experienced before, ascension past the mortal scape and in a brief moment of clarity, he thinks back to that day he met him. A flash of Osamu mounted on a steed surrounded by his many warriors, and rooting himself in Keiji’s life, like ivy entwining with the floorboards of his home, earthing into his heart to take his hand. Never in his life would he have thought that this, the feeling of Osamu’s shallow pants against his ear lobe, would be the thing to break him free. </p><p> </p><p>The shackles he thought were branded into his skin are nothing but a floor of mist, dense and opaque from years of the unknown, of never believing that there would ever be more to it, to life. </p><p> </p><p>There are so many things he needs to see, to tend to, and to make his mind of but for now, he lies bare and content, grinning at Osamu above him, who intertwines their fingers and drinks him in like water. When the man bows his head down, Keiji meets him halfway and captures his lips. </p><p> </p><p>And if this is not what freedom tastes like, then what does?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WE'RE FINALLY HERE! </p><p>I can't even begin to express the amount of gratitude and exhilaration that I'm feeling right now. I've been working on this fic since last July (yes, 8 months ago!) and it's so weird that I started this when I was 19, barely starting out in the HQ fandom as a writer and here I am at 20, making friends with the most talented writers and artists in the fandom and finally publishing a completed work. </p><p>This project is so precious to me for many reasons, but I would also like to express my thanks to my wonderful partners. </p><p>Iris, who has drawn three art pieces for this fanfiction of <a href="https://twitter.com/kuehjpg/status/1367505237746057218">chapter 7</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/kuehjpg/status/1367995652454510592">chapter 12</a><br/>, <a href="https://twitter.com/kuehjpg/status/1369536508252749826"> a WIP from chapter 5,</a> and who became a very good friend of mine for the past 8 months. I am so overjoyed by the fact that she has managed to capture Osamua and Akaashi in my little AU so perfectly, from the shy glances and the teasing--it's all there. She is an excellent artist and a wonderful person, please support her art<a href="https://twitter.com/kuehjpg"> on Twitter</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/kueh.jpg/"> Instagram!</a></p><p>Kelly, who I met two weeks ago but whom I cherish just as much. They've helped me so much in proofreading and the general direction of writing, never failing to support me when it counts. Thank you for being there for me not only as a beta but as a great friend. I cannot wait to continue working with you on any of our future works. Likewise, she's an outstanding writer on Tumblr and you can check out her work <a href="https://fuckinuchihas.tumblr.com/post/628793246948179968/masterlist-haikyuu-kuroko">here!</a></p><p>Lastly, I'd like to thank all of you who gave this piece a chance. When I started writing this, I didn't know how many people would even engage in it considering how Osaaka (not all, but most that I've seen) lies in the likes of canon-compliance and time-skips, which is amazing in itself but makes me second-guess about posting this all the time. I had a thing for periodic pieces and was ecstatic when I found out that poetry, especially love poems, was how the aristocracy would confess their feelings even before the Edo period--please correct me if I'm wrong--and I just really wanted to see sappy Osamu and restrained Akaashi in such a setting. I never expected seeing such positive feedback from it T^T so, really, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for giving me a chance. </p><p>I'd also like to note that I put in 14 chapters initially, but after taking some time to reassess the story, I didn't think an epilogue was necessary. If you'd like to see into their life in the future (which was what chapter 14 was meant to be) I can write it as a one-shot piece separate from this one :) </p><p>In writing this piece, I've also come up with several playlists to help me "get into the mindset." If you're interested here they are below:<br/>1.<a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6iWNfvxXwe4fH15CSQLw2e?si=R3qe400iTX2aL6zL7pfBfw">limerence "soundtrack"</a><br/>2. <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2L3MRNzHbpE4Hll3boko3s?si=FffJEClyQTuud_CbpfD_rQ">the heir</a><br/>3. <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3m1Hk0Fj2FB4eqFAvAYFeP?si=gzayLHdfRlujbPkhStWJZA">the younger twin</a><br/>4. <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5w6XamKf7ezLpfmtAgk8ky?si=uR2zDHR0TaCYq03ShnwoaQ/">the pretty one</a><br/>5. <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4aBLaY2lFZr97TG2XMcQGl?si=GmNZJDf3TTq7xW-Jq4lgwg">the king</a><br/>6. <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2ToBXKE3gU6JPPtGeMuItS?si=PSELM3wfRdqth_GLgau9mw">the brothers</a></p><p>I guess this is it for now. Again, special thanks to Iris and Kelly and to everyone who left me a comment and kudos, they are highly appreciated. </p><p>Come find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/lemqnie"> Twitter</a> so we can cry over osaaka together of hit up <a href="https://curiouscat.me/lemqnies">my curiouscat!</a></p><p>- milo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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